


Apples and Oranges

by EliMorgan



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: All set in the beautiful Highlands, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Archaic Werewolf Laws, Attempt at Humor, Blood and Violence, Crime, Everybody Lives, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Graphic descriptions of murder victims, I'm Bad At Summaries, Minor Character Death, More Tags Later?, Multi, Murder Mystery, Other, Romance, Torture, Werewolf Mates, Werewolf Packs, references to cannibalism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-23
Updated: 2019-05-13
Packaged: 2019-05-27 12:13:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 38,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15024377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EliMorgan/pseuds/EliMorgan
Summary: When a suspicious death occurs on Werewolf land, Junior Auror and resident Magical Creatures expert Hermione Granger is sent to investigate. It shouldn't take long; she's awful clever and it's pretty clear the killer is a werewolf, how many of those can there be?She didn't bank on Fenrir Greyback, nor on his deceptively charming (and large) Pack.Before long, she finds herself in much too deep with no sign of escape, and now the crimes are escalating. Caught up in a whirl of Mating bonds, Werewolf politics, jealousy, lust and murder, Hermione has to make some decisions about her life, her sense of morality and what she really knows about the werewolves everybody loves to loathe.Fenrir Greyback/Hermione Granger WolfMate!fic, with possible sightings of our other werewolf friends, Lavender Brown and Remus Lupin.





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** I do not own the works made use of herein, none of the Harry Potter features or characters belong to me. I make no money from this work. (Basically, if you recognise it, it's not mine.)
> 
> **PLEASE HEED THE WARNINGS IN THE TAGS**

"Murder at Haresdown Castle; you're in."

Hermione didn't bother to look up. It was becoming an exercise in frustration to work in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Either they were using her as a figurehead or they were throwing her the easiest, most boring jobs around – so that they could continue to use her as a figurehead. Sure, she was only twenty-three, and most of the department looked down on her as though her youth made her intrinsically unqualified for the post, but she wasn't just  _any_ twenty-three year old Auror. She was  _Hermione Granger_ ; proud co-author of the werewolf rights legislation, survivor of two years in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures; Beast Division, proud owner of a Muggle PHD in forensic science, veteran of the Second Wizarding War and close friend of the Minister. She was more qualified to be here than half of the team, including her boss.

Harry kept bugging her to transfer out if it was making her so miserable, like he had, but she was much too stubborn for that.

She recommitted herself to filing the paperwork from her last bust – an old lady in Berkshire who'd been unknowingly growing a Venomous Tentacula in her backyard – and shut her ears, determined not to listen to – and therefore be resentful of – whatever lucky sod had been given this gem of a case.

Something slammed down on the desk in front of her and she looked up in shock. It had been the meaty fist of the Department Head, Mr. Albert Kay, who stood over her with a manila file in his hand and a scowl on his weather-beaten face. Blinking, she read the label on the front and gasped. "Me, sir?" she asked, ashamed that her voice was shaking.

"Yes,  _you_ ," he snapped, tossing the file on the desk. "Who else would I be talking to?"

Bewildered, Hermione gave a pointed scan of the office. "Erm, well…  _anybody else_ , sir?"

His scowl deepened and he stabbed at her with a pudgy finger. "Nope. This is your wheelhouse, Miss Granger. Enjoy."

 _Her wheelhouse_? What on earth could that mean?

She tugged the paperwork towards her gingerly, as though it might explode any minute. There, stamped in bold ink across the top of the page, were the words  **MURDER: HARESDOWN CASTLE.** Further underneath sat the address and their contact – a Mr. Simidh Allaidh. The first page gave a rundown of their contact's life story – born in 1951 and raised in Thurso, Caithness; a wife, his childhood sweetheart, Isbeil; no education. He claimed Haresdown Castle and its surrounding area as his ancestral estate in the aftermath of the war through the Muggle council, and then applied to the Ministry to create a Sanctuary there. The Ministry, half from guilt and half too flustered to refuse, granted him the proper licenses and since then Haresdown had been its own township.

Hermione wrinkled her brow, flipping through the next few pages. There was something off here. For one – why would Mr. Allaidh need to create his own township? It's not exactly a priority for most men, and difficult to boot. It was a near miracle that his application had been accepted, and even more of one that the Ministry hadn't yet hopped in and taken back ownership of the lot.

Beside that, who claims their ancestral estate through the  _council_? The  _Muggle_ council? From the notes, Haresdown had been a Heritage site up until then, so well preserved, and certainly not something the government would want to give up. Hell, it must have been worth  _millions_. How did he wrangle that? And how, after going to all that trouble to get the Muggles involved, did he manage to have them not notice when he warded them out?

She flipped back through to the front of the folder and noted the address. Middle-Of-Nowhere, Argyll and Bute. Newly intrigued, she nonetheless grit her teeth and followed protocol.

"He must have made a mistake. It's one of yours, McKinnon," she said, trying not to sound as bitter as she felt. "Argyll and Bute."

"Haresdown? Ye got to be kiddin'." Dougal McKinnon, Senior Auror for the Highlands, snorted in disgust as he dug his fork into the lunch his wife had lovingly prepared for him that morning. "Like fuck am a goin' near that one. Keep it."

Startled, she turned in her seat to stare at him. "But it's a murder," she said slowly. Her confusion was well justified – murders were rare in this office, and usually there'd be a massive jurisdiction showdown as each area tried to claim it as their own. Once, when a Yorkshire native had been murdered on boat trip in the Thames, the head Aurors for Yorkshire, the Metropolitan and River Crimes squad had had a knock-down, drag-out fight in the atrium. Helen (Yorkshire), the woman who won, still kept Scott-from-the-Met's ponytail in a box on her desk as a trophy.

Dougal, however, just snorted again. "A jus' cannae be fucked wi' it, lass," he mumbled through a mouthful of chicken salad. "S'not worth the paycheck."

Her eyebrows now firmly stuck somewhere beyond her hairline, Hermione looked back at the file on her desk. She didn't have an area – she wasn't that senior. Instead, they liked to stick her on cases as a Magical Creature Ambassador. She'd never run her own case before, though. Never. Something must be very off about this one.

She couldn't ignore the thrill of excitement that ran up her neck when she thought of it, however. A case – a  _murder_  – all of her own! A file with her name printed across the bottom, a bunch of trainees calling her 'ma'am', a notebook full of interview notes. A chance to  _prove herself_ , prove she was something more than a walking encyclopaedia…

Head stuck firmly in the clouds, she slapped the cover shut and shoved it into her bag. There was a murderer to catch, and she was going to be the one to do it.

* * *

Nearly 500 miles away and a day beforehand, Fenrir Greyback stood over a corpse.

It wasn't a pretty corpse – all torn up from predators and bloated from a float in the lake. His face was puffy and unrecognisable, largely from the massive bite that had ripped his nose, his lips and half of one eye-socket out. He grimaced, feeling slightly nauseous. A face didn't qualify as 'good eatin''.

Beside him, his Beta Simidh kicked the foot of the poor, murdered bloke and watched it twitch. "Why didn't they just eat him?" he asked idly.

It was a good question. Fenrir couldn't answer it. If it were him – and it had been, not so long ago – he'd have at least ravaged it to enough of an extent that the blood had saturated the ground, drawing in predators from far and wide. Or he'd have done it close to a full moon, left it in his territory, and pranced off safe in the knowledge that the bloke would never be seen again.

Instead, whatever inept murderer had killed this guy had dragged him into Loch Awe and left him, probably thinking he'd sink or float away and never be seen again.

This person did not know much about the Lochs.

The corpse had appeared at dawn, when one of the pups, taking an illicit early morning dip, dragged it onto the shore. At first they'd thought it was treasure, or saved meat – it wasn't unusual for a female to hang a fish from the bank overnight, to a purpose Fenrir couldn't understand – and upon realising it was a whole human male she'd shrieked the damn village down.

Now, Abigail sat miserably in a room up at the castle, waiting to be questioned.

Simidh busied himself sniffing about the body, but Fen didn't bother. If it had been in the water long enough to absorb that much water, it had been there long enough to disperse any helpful scents. Which, if it had been a werewolf – and it very likely had, from the bite marks – was likely the smartest move they'd made.

He cursed loudly and foully, earning himself the evil eye from Elder Peg, who'd limped her centuries-old body out to oversee the discovery. She was his paternal great-grandmother, and the only woman who'd ever managed to cow him. Not today. Today, he was too pissed.

This murder jeopardised the Pack; everything Fen had worked for his entire life. He loved this pack. He gave his whole self to this pack. He'd led them into the wrong side of a war because they'd thought the benefits package was better there, and after they'd lost he'd built them back up from the ground. It was he, with the help of Isbeil and Peg, that had found them this land. It had been him that had (through Simidh) bullied the Ministry into accepting their requests for Sanctuary. It might not have been him that had changed the werewolf laws but it had been him that had twisted it to their advantage, receiving the compensation they'd needed to make their village habitable.

He'd sacrificed, too. He'd allowed Simidh to be the public face of the pack: him being much more friendly and fit for public consumption than Fen, despite how it undermined his status as Alpha. He'd stopped biting people; one of the great joys in his life. He'd never mated so that he could be free for this pack, so that the Pack could be his first priority.

The murders jeopardised that by requiring them to bring in the Ministry. He'd worked to hard to keep them separate – they were allowed to rule under their own laws, now, for the most part, and they no longer had to register their existence every year. Only the nomadic weres had to do that. Murder, however, they didn't have the resources to investigate. Mostly because it was so rare.

Violent deaths, you understand, were  _not_. They were wild animals; they fought. They killed. They paid restitution to the families of the dead and moved on. It was a fact of life. These deaths were combat deaths, rather than the unjust attack of the cold-blooded murder.

"No signs of a fight," Simidh said then, as if he'd read Fen's mind. "I can't tell anymore than that. I'm no dead-healer."

"I believe they're called coroners, dear," Peg said, opening her mouth for the first time since she'd walked into the clearing. "Oh, it doesn't smell so bad," she exclaimed in surprise, smiling faintly and drawing Fen's scowl when he realised that meant she hadn't been breathing. "I expected rot."

"You shouldn' be out 'ere," Fen growled at his nan for the third time, who only rolled her eyes. He didn't know what else he'd expected, not really. She was an odd duck, his nan. When he'd first come back to the pack with the news of the Castle, she'd sniffed and said 'well, now – do you see how much you can get done when you stop eating people and instead let them do their job?'.

No-one challenged Peg, and even Fen couldn't push it too far, but damnit, she was  _old_. Even for a werewolf she was getting a bit rickety, her hair steely and eyes bleached white. The pack revered her as an Elder, and as well they should, but it didn't change the fact that she was near-as blind and couldn't walk more than a mile a day.

He feared that one moon the change would kill her. It was his worst fear. Aside from the pack, the old bitch was all he had.

"Don't look at me like that," she scolded him all of a sudden, her thin lips pursed.

"Like wha'?" he grunted, turning back to the body. Simidh was messing with it's head, which lolled on its neck like a snapped branch.

"Like I'm going to die, insolent pup." She chuckled. "You know well and good I ain't dying 'til I get my grandbabies."

He snarled slightly – only a little, as a warning. She'd live forever, then, because the Pack was his child and always would be. None of the females here were fit to be his mate, and with his outside reputation, not to mention the small fact that they all thought he was dead (and good riddance), he wasn't likely to find one there, either.

He remembered the mudblood chit who'd been so scared of him and smirked. She would have made a decent mate, if he'd managed to keep her. Had Crazy Bella not taken her away.

"Nothing," Simidh said, climbing back to his feet. "We'll have to call them in."

Fen grimaced. He'd like nothing less than to have some Ministry ponce sniffing about his pack, but it didn't look like he had a choice. Like he'd said – the Pack was everything, and he'd do whatever was best for them. Right now, finding the murderer was a priority. Before they killed again.


	2. Chapter Two

Haresdown Castle was a vaguely Norman building of the architectural school of 'Keep-The-Fuck-Out'. Sprawled across a hill overlooking Loch Awe, the castle was perched precariously at the very top, with a wall modestly concealing it from view. Another wall, larger, topped with vicious spikes and the occasional Archer's Sight, wrapped lovingly around the base of the hill to protect the village within.

From the open gates Hermione could make out the primitive huts they'd built from cutting down the trees which had overgrown the grounds. They were clustered in seemingly random groups, most of them in little circles around permanent fire-pits. Further towards the hill there stood rickety stalls displaying fresh fruit and vegetables, dried meats and leathers to trade. Closer to the wall in the West, down-wind, a rancid smell hung in the air that she suspected came from tanning-pits.

It was all terribly Medieval, and surprisingly self-sufficient. Even from the entrance Hermione noted how modernity clashed with their simpler lifestyle: a little boy caked in mud wore jeans and chased a poodle, while a woman at a stall wore a clearly home-made tunic but pulled her hair back with a rhine-stone headband of the Lavender variety. Chickens wandered and pecked aimlessly at the ground, and in the distance a cow lowed.

Fascinating, Hermione thought, while remaining somewhat bemused.  _Why_  were they living like this? She'd found no answers in the library, nor in the DRCMC archives. Mr. Allaidh had signed the Werewolf Act of 2000, not that she remembered him, and there was some mention of him in a case pertaining to illegal Hippogriff baiting from fifteen years ago, but otherwise… nothing. He had no children, he didn't vote, he hadn't participated in the War. He was an enigma.

Throwing her shoulders back, she hitched her bag up further. She wasn't going to get any answers hanging around outside, was she?

With quick, determined steps she crossed the threshold of the gate and glanced around. There was a shack built on the wall to the right of the gates, which she assumed worked as a look-out. There were four walls but two were merely half, one facing her and one facing inward. Inside, a scruffy-looking man thanked a lanky woman as she handed him a steaming mug and skipped back off to a nearby hut. The man, brown-haired with a rust-coloured beard that perched happily on his chest, leaned back in a saggy armchair and turned the page of a Barbara Cartland novel, burying his nose in its pages.

"Excuse me?" she said, leaning against the wall. She felt ridiculously out-of-place in her dusky-pink shirt and navy skirt-suit, and the heels of her black Mary-Janes kept making a determined effort to acquaint themselves with the mud.  _If only I'd been told I'd be travelling back to the Middle Ages_ , she thought bad-temperedly,  _I'd have dressed for the occasion!_

In the shack the guard – or, she assumed he was a guard, in which case he was astonishingly inept at his job – held up a finger and turned the page. She held back a frustrated growl. "I'm here to see Mr. Allaidh?"

That got his attention; he marked his place with his thumb and glanced up impatiently. That glance turned into an astonished once-over when he saw who was waiting. "Hermione Granger?" he said dumbly, in a voice that sounded like each word was dragged over broken glass on the way out. " _The_ Hermione Granger?!"

"Auror Hermione Granger, from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement," she corrected him primly, fighting to pull her badge from her pocket and handing it over. "I understand you've a murderer on your hands?"

"Hermione Granger…" He repeated, staring at her badge, then back at her. She shifted her feet awkwardly, uncomfortable under his intense scrutiny.

"Weren't you expecting me?"

He coughed, flushing a little under his beard as he remembered his manners and leaped to his feet. "Well, aye, we were es'pectin' someone, jus' not…" He broke off to stare at her again, and she snapped.

"If you say my name one more time I will not be held responsible for what follows," she threatened, all the while wondering how effective a threat like that might be on a man, she could see now, that nearly doubled her in breadth.

Astonishingly, if anything he only blushed with deeper embarrassment. "Sorry!" he said, flustered. "I jus' ain't never seen a war hero before."

"Well… quite." She shifted, then raised an eyebrow. "Mr. Allaidh?"

"Oh! Oh, aye, yeah – he's es'pectin' yeh. Go on up."

She sighed with tightly leashed exasperation. "Up  _where?_ "

He nodded slowly. "Yeh righ', o' course. Molly!"

That last part was a bellow which signalled for the woman who'd brought him the tea to pop her head out of her hut. Hermione noticed now that she was closer that the huts were beautifully made, and actually quite new. They couldn't be more than a few years in residence, which chimed well with her background knowledge.

"What do you want now, Jon?" she demanded crossly, stamping her way across the mud in – Hermione was amused to note – Doc Martens worn below an impeccably kept peach-blossom sundress. "You can get your own damn tea!"

"Aye, but yours is the best," Jon grinned, an edge of flirtation to his voice.

"That's because I  _buy_ mine," she said, rolling her eyes. "Unlike the rest of you savages. Who's this?"

"Hermione Granger," Hermione introduced herself, stepping forward to shake 'Molly's hand. She was tall and well-muscled but in a surprisingly feminine way, with russet hair tumbling over her shoulders and familiar scars littering all of her exposed skin.

"She's here about the murder," Jon proclaimed in a jaunty tone, still apparently fascinated by Hermione. "MLE, she is."

Molly smiled politely and shook her hand. "I'm sorry, I don't know what that is," she said, sounding completely genuine. "I'm a Muggle," she explained when Hermione looked confused. "Or – well, I used to be. You'll be wanting Alpha, then, yes? Come on, I'll take you up. Jon would, but he's too  _busy_." She rolled her eyes, using sarcastic air quotes around the 'busy'.

"Erm, thank-you." Hermione waved at Jon, Molly already marching ahead on the well-trodden path up towards the hill.

"Don't thank him," Molly scoffed. "He's got a right good time of it, working the wall. The wards keep most people out and visitors aren't really a thing. Now, me – I work security at a Muggle nightclub. It's all drunk tossers and drug dealers. He doesn't know how well he has it."

"I'm sorry," Hermione murmured, glancing around as they passed through what appeared to be a market place. Residents kept stopping in their tracks to stare, and it was quite disconcerting. "Are you – I mean to say… I don't want to offend, but are you a werewolf?"

Molly paused, turning to her with an amused look on her face. "They didn't tell you?" Seeing her expression, she laughed. "Oh, dear. Miss Granger, we're  _all_ werewolves. This is the new home of the Central British Pack – the largest pack in the United Kingdom."

She sounded quite proud of that, and Hermione couldn't help but smile too. "And… you're okay with that?"

"Okay with being a werewolf?" Molly shrugged, holding Hermione's elbow to help her across a great rock in the centre of the pack. "It's not like I was doing much else with my life. Single mother, orphan. At least here I've got a support system for Joe."

Hermione nodded thoughtfully. It had been a similar story for most of the werewolves she'd interviewed during her research for the law, but she wanted to make sure. The Central British Pack was the one Fenrir Greyback had run, after all, and his policy of indiscriminate Changes was widely known – and feared.

"And… Joe?"

Wryly smirking, Molly shook her head. "He's no wolf. Too sweet for it – he barely has the stomach for hunting. That's why I work outside of the Castle's protection, see – the Pack doesn't have much use for money inside, but if I contribute to the taxes and that then no-one can challenge our rights to food." Squaring her shoulders, she smugly added, "not that they'd win."

Ten more minutes of walking had them at the Castle's front door, then pushing through.

Now, let it be known that Hermione Granger had visited a great many castles in her time. Her family was the sort that fervently believed culture and class could be soaked in via osmosis should one spend enough time in rich people's houses, and as such Hermione considered herself somewhat of a Castle connoisseur. She had certain expectations of Haresdown, expectations built first in the Ministry archives then reinforced upon first sight of the intimidating building in the distance.

She was not disappointed.

Haresdown Castle, which was not its original name but instead had been adopted when the English conquered Scotland and realised they couldn't pronounce the names of a great many of their spoils, was less Norman and more 'Norman-inspired'. Still ancient, it had been built as a Clan castle, which explained the extensive grounds. The outer wall was a later addition but the castle was nearly wholly authentic. The large entryway opened into a dining hall twice the size of Hogwart's Great Hall, with a lower ceiling, used in a previous life to conduct Clan meetings and, Molly explained, now housed Pack meetings bi-monthly in the same manner. It was filled by sturdy wooden benches, with simple glass windows covering the back wall and no other decorations except a few raggedy banners hanging from the ceiling. A door in the back, hidden stealthily behind a banner, led to the kitchen. Otherwise, bar the wrought-iron torches on the wall, it was exceedingly plain.

Hermione, looking around, still couldn't understand what would possess Heritage Scotland to give up the place. Genuine Clan castles of this era and in such immaculate condition were rare to non-existent nowadays, and the clan tradition was intrinsic to Scots history. It made no sense at all.

After a brief lecture on the history of the hall and the entryway from Molly, who considered herself an amateur history buff, Hermione was led into an equally plain antechamber. Here, the ceiling was hung with faded plaids no doubt left over from Heritage occupation, a theory confirmed by the plaque on one wall. The room held more uncomfortable looking wooden furniture, a few lanterns and a group of people at one end. Molly stepped forward to introduce Hermione to the leader, but she was too distracted by a familiar face lurking at the back of the crowd. With long blonde hair and prominent scars, it could only be –

"Lavender?"

Lavender swung on her heel to face Hermione, her face splitting into a grin. "Hermione!" She squealed, in true Lavender fashion, flinging herself across the room into her arms. "Oh, my, it's been so long! How have you been? What are you doing now? How's Won-Won? I'm so sorry I had to leave him, but you can understand why, can't you?"

Separating herself with difficulty, Hermione stood back to gape at her old room-mate. "I thought you were dead!"

Lavender blinked. "You did?"

"Yes, I damn well did! So does your mum – we went to your  _funeral_!"

Lavender scoffed, waving a hand negligently. "She's such a drama queen, honestly. You tell a woman you're leaving to join a werewolf pack and she's all 'you're dead to me! I wish you'd never been born!'." She snorted easily. "A funeral? Really? Crazy, my mum."

Hermione gaped stupidly. "But… but…"

Lavender squinted, cocking her head to one side. "What are  _you_ doing here? Oh, are you a werewolf too? That's so great! You can share my cottage – usually you have to work a few months before they give you one but I'm not mated –  _yet_ ," she winked salaciously, "so you can share with me."

"Oh, no – I'm not a werewolf," Hermione corrected her. "Not that there's anything wrong with that!" she added hastily, giving a sheepish smile to the surrounding group, "but I'm just not one. Sorry. Or, not?" She shook her head. "I'm here with the Ministry. The murder?"

"Oh, yes, that." Lavender grimaced. "So odd. I mean, it's not like people don't die but this one, well, he's gone all…" She made a graphic gesture with her hand that included drawing a finger across her neck and then pretending to hang herself.

"Lavender," a sharp voice intervened, and surprisingly, Lavender snapped to attention with a sober expression on her face. A man stepped out from the crowd, a benign smile on his lips that contrasted with the hardness in his eyes. "You're monopolising our guest."

Subdued, Lavender muttered an apology, stepping back. Hermione turned to the newcomer with a polite smile, shoving her hand out to shake. "Hermione Granger from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement," she said with great pomp. "Can I assume, from your demeanour, that you are Mr. Simidh Allaidh?"

"Sim-mea," Mr. Allaidh said, and it took her a moment to realise that he was correcting her pronunciation. "Yes, that is me. It's a pleasure to meet you, Miss Granger. I've heard much of your work."

She flushed pleasantly. "Well, thank-you." Clearing her throat delicately, she added, "I hope it's not impolite to confess I've not heard much of you, sir."

He laughed softly, a pleasant sound that nonetheless unnerved her. He shook back a mane of dark, dark hair, slowly losing the battle with greys. "That is a good thing, for a werewolf," he said wryly, to a chorus of similar laughs from his entourage. "It means we have not done anything too bad."

Hermione joined in with a small titter, though she had no idea why. Feeling herself losing control of the situation, she straightened her back and nodded once, firmly. Amusement shone in Mr. Allaidh's eyes at the motion, but he conceded the floor to her all the same. "I understand you reported a crime," she said primly.

Solemnity began at Mr. Allaidh and rippled outwards until the room was so silent you could hear a pin drop. With a sudden motion, Mr. Allaidh nodded. "A most grievous crime. A murder, we think." Then, as if remembering what she was there for, he smiled wryly. "Of course, that is your judgement to make."

"Quite." She looked around at the crowd, all watching her intently. "Might I see the body?" she asked in lieu of requesting privacy. For all of her research on werewolves, she knew they were an entire subculture, and she couldn't be sure what her requests might mean here. Though she shuddered to make the generalisation, in some European countries asking to be alone with an Alpha was implicit consent. She didn't want to make any such mistakes here.

As if reading her thoughts, Mr. Allaidh's lips curled sardonically. "Of course, Miss Granger. Perhaps you would feel more comfortable if your friend were to accompany us?"

Lavender blanched. "To see –  _him_? Oh, no, no, no, no-"

"Lavender." It was only the one word, but she fell silent again. Hermione couldn't help admiring that skill – Professor McGonagall would probably kill to learn it.

 _She might have to_ , she reminded herself. Alpha status, after all, was something one fought for.

Lavender might not want to see the body but Hermione  _did_ , and she was none too keen on being alone with the Alpha while she did so, either, so she smiled apologetically at her old friend even as she dragged her along with them. Mr. Allaidh – "call me Simidh," he said benevolently as they walked, - led them out the back of the antechamber and down a set of claustrophobically tiny stairs. There were many of them, spiralling downwards, the air getting dry and cool as they descended. Eventually, they reached a thick wooden door with a modern steel padlock threaded through the handle.

"Are you faint of heart, Miss Granger?" Simidh asked dryly, a twinkle in his eye.

She straightened her shoulders, jerking her chin out defiantly. He took that as a no, and pressed on in.

The basement was clean and dry, all four walls, ceiling and floor made of stone. Surgical instruments hung on racks and were organised neatly on silver trays set on wooden tables. Two wardrobes stood on the back wall, full of pilfered scrubs, evidence bags, cloth – everything one might need in a morgue. In a corner, a stunningly pretty woman with bronze hair sat flipping through an outdated copy of the Times. All in all, it was disturbingly similar to every other morgue Hermione had ever been in, regardless of its location and the primitive nature of the village outside.

The body was covered in a white sheet on a table in the centre of the room. Hermione headed straight there. Behind her, Lavender lingered at the door and Simidh greeted the attendant – Dr. Wallace.

She reached out to pull the sheet back but the doctor got there first, revealing the corpse with a flourish more suited to the circus.

It was horrible. She wouldn't use the word 'disgusting' because that seemed disrespectful, though admittedly it had been the first one she'd thought of. The skin was colourless, less flesh and more set-jelly, with gashes showing bone, sinew and, well, everything else there was to see. One eyeball had been pulped but the other stared blindly upwards, somehow all the worse for being intact.

Hermione furiously stamped down on her nausea.

There was no scent but the slightly fishy aroma one got from paddling in the lake, for which Hermione was grateful. The air was cold enough to preserve the body, too, though if she could Hermione would ask for a freezer. That was not to be – the Pack was not keen on relinquishing the investigation to the Ministry, never mind the body.

"Who is he?" she asked, then clamped her mouth closed again in case her gag reflex rebelled.

"Matthew Turner," Dr. Wallace said in a crisp, English accent. "Thirty-two. An ex-wife, two kids. He lived here in the sanctuary."

"He was a werewolf?" Hermione enquired, fighting the urge to push the various organs that peeked out of his ripped open stomach back into their original positions.

Dr. Wallace gave her a queer look. "Yes. Which makes this worse."

"Or the same." Hermione risked a glance into Dr. Wallace's cool, blue eyes. "It would be just as horrific a crime had it happened to a Muggle or a wizard, Doctor. Let's get that straight right now."

The other woman sneered but didn't comment, so Hermione counted that as a victory. "You said wife?"

Simidh picked up there. "Yes. She's a muggle, they were – divorced? Yes, that's the word – before he Changed. The same with the children. He never mated."

Her eyes were going blurry with the effort not to draw her gaze down his body to the ravaged mess that had been his legs and groin. The lack of blood that she had first been grateful for now seemed vulgar; she would have  _paid_ for blood if only to cover up the savageness of his wounds. "No family in the Pack?" she checked. Family could be difficult in a murder investigation – they were both suspects and victims, and their emotions ran high. If she was lucky…

"None," Simidh confirmed, and Hermione dizzily resisted the urge to fist-pump. Instead, she nodded thoughtfully.

"I'll need a list of his closest acquaintances, his job, his daily routine. I'll need to search his lodgings, too, and anywhere else he had been. Can I assume you secured the scenes?"

"Where we found him, yes – the 'crime scene', as it were, has not yet been discovered. But, Miss Granger," she drew her eyes to Simidh, who was looking at her sympathetically. "Perhaps begin tomorrow? It's getting late, now, and you've had a long trip."

"Right," Hermione said, faintly. She'd had enough of the body for one day, she thought. She'd leave that to Dr. Wallace. "Perhaps someone might show me to my room, now, please?"

Lavender stepped forward to volunteer, then retched when she caught sight of the body. His mild amusement returned, Simidh took her arm to steer her out. Hermione followed, but not before she turned back to snooty Dr. Wallace. "I'm a doctor too. Oxford. Just so you know." Petty vindication over, she turned on her heel and sauntered out with her head held high.


	3. Chapter Three

Hermione was shown to a bedroom on the second floor with a spectacular view over the village below, then miles upon miles of rolling woodland, hills, and shimmery, silver loch. From there she could watch birds hunting on the water, scattering from the canopy of neighbouring forests, and, most exciting of all, dive-bombing the heads of unsuspecting Pack members. Said Pack members could be seen as swarming ants, blurry-featured blobs scuttling across the grass going about their work.

Behind her, Simidh was explaining the features of the room, including pointless historical embellishment that Hermione was guaranteed to find fascinating on any day that didn't also involve the bloated corpses of mutilated murder victims. She let his droning wash over her as she watched the yard below; Lavender was sashaying her way down the hill, now – she called out to the woman manning the fruit stall, who tossed her an apple. Lavender caught it with far more athletic prowess than she'd  _ever_ displayed in school, and sauntered on to disappear into a smaller hut near the centre of town.

"Special girl, that Lavender," Simidh said, making Hermione jerk when his voice came much closer than expected. She stepped to one side slightly to give herself space, and turned her head to see him grimacing. "Sorry – Pack life. Personal space doesn't exist."

"And there I thought it was just Lavender," Hermione joked weakly, and then she remembered how Molly had unflinchingly grabbed her arm earlier, and how Jon had seen nothing wrong with staring. It was both fascinating and unnerving to think that this whole sub-culture allowed the sort of interpersonal relations that were considered taboo, or at the very least indecent, in the rest of the Wizarding world. Hell, Hermione was constantly in trouble with the news for being less than discrete about her physical affections – kissing Draco Malfoy on the cheek last summer had spurred an entire month's worth of speculation in the  _Prophet_. Restraint was the name of the game in polite society.

"It took a long time for her to fit in," Simidh was saying, and it took a moment for Hermione to remember what he was on about. "In the beginning she was extremely uncomfortable, in denial about it all. She kept running away, then reappearing at the perimeter a few days later."

Hermione frowned. "I thought it was her choice to come here?"

"Oh, no!" Simidh laughed heartily, like she'd made a wonderful joke, when really she was already marking up the incident report in her mind.  _Kidnapping_ , it would say, then  _Lavender Brown_.  _Suspect: Mr. Simidh Allaidh._ Maybe if he was a kidnapper, he'd also stoop to murder? Perhaps Mr. Turner had attempted to escape, and Simidh had stopped him. Permanently.

She was warming up to this theory, and about to slap on the handcuffs, when he added, "it was the old Alpha that brought her here, but we'd never have left her without help either way. Pack is family."

"Fenrir Greyback?" she asked. A shiver seemed to go through Simidh at the name, starting at his toes and ripping its way up. " _He_ brought her here?"

"He was hardly going to leave her behind. He's a good Alpha – the best there ever was. Leaving a cub like Lavender out in the cold is well beyond what he's capable of."

Remembering Lavender's face, and the stories she'd heard of Greyback, and her own –  _no, don't think about that_  – Hermione rather doubted there was much he wasn't capable of, but Simidh knew him better and had loyalty to the man so she wouldn't press the point. Not right that minute, anyway.

"Right!" Simidh clapped, his eyes scanning the room. "I think that's everything. Your things will be arriving soon, I hope?"

"Yes – my friend's elf will drop them off." Hermione wrinkled her nose, adding "I hope" in a voice too quiet for the man to hear. Kreacher was a happier elf now, but since he'd begun splitting his time between Hogwarts and Grimmauld Place, his work ethic had taken a massive knock. Without being summoned, his appearances were sporadic at best, and Hermione was more likely to arrive home and find Draco's father wandering about with a feather duster than spot Kreacher doing any actual work.

Winky claimed Kreacher was carrying on a torrid affair with one of the school elves; on this matter, Hermione committed the cardinal sin of law enforcement and didn't bother to get that account corroborated. Usually she liked to practise good police work in all areas of her life, just to get into the habit (her ex referred to her as 'the Spanish Inquisition' which, she supposed, was accurate enough, her curiosity being what it was, not to mention the light bondage) but considering this concerned the possibility of House-Elf coitus, she thought she'd be forgiven for not prying.

She wanted to  _scourgify_ her brain at the very suggestion, and then maybe bathe in bleach.

Simidh left and Hermione began to set up her room from the bag she always wore at her side. It had taken years of weaning to rid herself of the beaded bag and its myriad conveniences, but eventually (after four doses of cognitive behavioural therapy and no less than fifteen tantrums) she'd managed to make do with a little leather satchel (in a jaunty red, because Hermione was  _that_ cheerful) just large enough to house her work, a notebook and ball-point, a change of underwear, a toothbrush, two books and a six-pack of Evian.

Rome wasn't built in a day, okay?

When the desk was set up and her underwear hidden modestly in her chest of drawers, she checked the time and settled in to wait. Not for Kreacher, because only the Gods knew when his insatiable elven paramour might let him out of the nest, but for visitors.

The one thing you could always guarantee when investigating a murder in a small community was visitors, whether said community was an introverted small werewolf commune or a church.

Her first knock came about an hour after Simidh departed. It was brisk and business-like but polite, not too heavy, not too soft. Hermione had gotten to Chapter Four of  _Taming the Ridgeback_ , a fantasy series she quite enjoyed in which the author posited the theory that if dragons could turn into humans, they would make quite sexy ones with insatiable appetites and a penchant for sexually inexperienced bookworms. Even though she'd been expecting it, she was still disgruntled to have to leave her dashing Viking on the bed, so when she opened the door her expression might not have been as welcoming as one might have liked.

"Hello!" a woman trilled with a smile. She crossed the threshold without invitation, gawking around shamelessly. "So you're the famous Hermione Granger! Or should that be infamous? If you want to believe the Prophet, that is…" She gave a wink as she turned on her heel. "But then, I'd have to have lost a few IQ points without noticing to believe any of what Skeeter writes. I'm Isbeil, by the way. Isbeil Allaidh."

They shook hands as Hermione gave her a professional once-over. Isbeil Allaidh carried herself like a woman who knew exactly what she was meant to be doing, and had a stupendous excuse for why she wasn't doing it. In slim-fit jeans and a top that seemed to be fashioned of two strips of leather laced up at the back, she was not beautiful, nor pretty, but sensuous in a way Hermione found intimidating. Around her neck she wore a fang on a shoelace which she fingered idly; her feet were bare and red-raw from the terrain outside.

"You're the Alpha female?" Hermione checked, picking up her notes and flicking through to what she knew about Mrs. Allaidh. She was supposed to be nearly fifty, but she looked much younger than that, without a single grey in her light-blonde hair nor a crease on her tanned face.

"Oh," Isbeil grinned slowly, licking her tongue across the front row of her teeth. "I suppose you could call me that, yes. That is, it's been at least ten years since I was last challenged for the position."

Startled, Hermione looked up. "I thought werewolves mated for life?"

"We do," Isbeil stretched languidly, resting against the wall. "But many newcomers, they think that the woman is the easier target. So they get their mate to challenge me instead of challenging the Alpha. Or, a woman enters the pack and tries to seduce the Alpha, to undermine me."

"But Simidh is impotent without you," Hermione said slowly, puzzling over the new information. She made notes with quick, deft slashes of her pen. "So none of that makes sense."

"It doesn't have to make sense, girl. It's Pack." She gave the room another once over, then riveted her odd yellow eyes on Hermione again. "Are you settling in alright?"

"Quite well, thank-you."

Isbeil nodded and pushed off of the wall, pulling a sheaf of parchment from behind her back. "I brought you the sum of our investigations so far. There are no obvious suspects; hardly surprising, really."

"No close friends? Girlfriends? Enemies, even?"

Isbeil paused, seeming to consider something. "Well," she began, making a show of her hesitance (just in case Hermione was too dim to pick up on her reluctance, she guessed – older people tended to do that, as if they were doing her a favour by keeping her from having to figure out their subtle undertones all by her wee self). "He wasn't popular," she finally settled on. "I didn't like him much myself, but then I barely had to interact with him. It's the other females that had the problems – handsy, you know? Misogynistic."

'Other females' – her words weren't painting a great picture of Mr. Turner, and she had an uneasy feeling that it would only get worse. Not that it mattered to her, professionally; though she admitted it was a lot easier to empathise with a victim when they were virtuous and kind, rather than the sort of person Herrmione might have been tempted to kill herself.

"Are the names of these 'other females' on there?" she asked, holding her hand out for the packet. Isbeil hesitated, then handed it over with a slightly constipated look on her face.

"No – the list would be a mile long if we added every woman he'd ever harassed." She rolled her eyes, waving a hand at the village through the window. "You'd be wasting the better part of a week if you interviewed them all. I thought it might be better if you spoke to  _Madam Scarlett_  instead." The woman's name was coated in sarcasm, dragged out of Isbeil's mouth along with a healthy serving of distaste. "She elected herself representative of the unmated females about a year ago – if anybody will know where to look, she will."

Hermione nodded, her mind scrambling to keep up with the undertones of Isbeil's words. She noted the name down in her book for later – she'd wait to start her interviews until the next day, when she'd gone over the existing information and added her own notes. By that time Dr. Wallace should have began cataloguing the various wounds as the body deflated, even if she wouldn't be able to autopsy for a few days yet. Time of death, at least, might be viable.

She struggled to think of more questions to ask Isbeil but her mind was clouded with new information, and she needed to sort it before she could know what was pertinent and what was not. This in mind, she dismissed the older woman, savouring the look of surprise on her face when she stopped in the corridor and realised that, not only had someone ordered her about, but she'd acquiesced, too.

A split second of something dark and cruel flashed over her face at that, but Hermione was already closing the door, and so convinced herself she'd imagined it.

Flopping on the floor in the pool of sunlight the window allowed, Hermione started to organize herself. Weakly coloured ink was laid to one side for her use, a tiny brush perched vertically against them for highlighting purposes. Her ball-point was laid on the other side, leaving a two-foot wide gap. In this space, Hermione placed the witness statements on one side, her notebook open on the other, and the miscellaneous section along the top. Thus prepared, she dove in.

It became quickly apparent that, far from the reluctance in general Wizarding Britain to associate with Aurors and their investigations, the Pack as a whole were exceedingly enthusiastic about participating. There were no fewer than forty-five witness statements, including seven from children that Hermione would have been unable to gather without a parent, a representative from the Children's Services department at the Ministry, and their Pack Alpha present, all of which could contaminate and morph what was told. In contrast, Isbeil or a woman called Mary-Rose had conducted all of these interviews privately, just them and the children, scratching it out word for word and signing it messily at the bottom.

As much as she appreciated this effort, it soon came to light that there were greater problems to overcome than the assumed reluctance of Pack members to talk to the police – the first being that none of the statements were overly specific; the second of which was the bloody Sanctuary itself.

There was no discernible infrastructure. None. The streets that ran willy-nilly through the huts had no name. The first four statements referred to the marketplace as, in turn, 't'market', 'Square', 'that place up there', and 'Fruit Heaven'. Some of the names were that mental amalgamation of vowels that she had begun to recognise as regional Gaelic, but knowing the language made no difference when she couldn't translate it; she wasn't a curse-breaker and therefore didn't know the obscurer translation spells, and she certainly hadn't bothered to pack a copy of  _Scots 4 Dummies_.

Helpfully, however, the woman had written a short biography at the beginning of the sheets of paper, allowing her to discard the Scottish natives for later – she made a note to herself to contact Bill, or even Remus; as a Welshman she expected he might have a vague recognition of some of the words, given as they stemmed from the same language. As she searched deeper, she came across witness statements she could actually read, and buried herself in them.

The story played out like so: Mr. Turner had been reported missing six days ago, when his neighbour Martin Forsyth, another muggle, had trucked up to his cottage and found the place empty. Turner had been late to his shift in the chopping yard, where they brought the trees they'd cleared to strip the bark and prepare the components for use. Turner had been booked in for six four-hour shifts a week, already having missed one the morning before. It wasn't uncommon for him to skip out, Forsyth had defended himself, but he'd always been back within a day, which explained why it had taken over twenty-four hours for the man to report his absence.

Three separate adults and one child admitted to seeing Turner the evening before, skulking about the tannery in a mood. Four children saw him an hour before that, leering at the nursery teacher, Mrs. Quinn. Mrs. Quinn denies this statement, saying that she'd not seen Mr. Turner since the weekend, and if he'd come near her she'd have done graphic, anatomically improbable and clearly unhealthy things to his genitalia. Hermione had had to reread that statement several times – it was difficult to imagine a teacher with that sort of imagery in their mind. Was it a pack thing, or should she be reporting her to the Ministry?

Moving on, there were several sightings of him throughout the day, and he'd attended lunch in the main hall at the Castle. Hermione gnawed at her lip. There weren't a whole lot of leads here, but she thought she'd start with the mysterious Madam Scarlett – whose statement simply said "piss off, you uppity bitch" – and then move on to the teacher, who if nothing else might shed more light on why nobody appeared to like the man and, furthermore, had been so keen on selling him out. His workmates would also be a good call, she thought, cross-referencing the names she'd picked out with those on the list Isbeil had given her. Hermione had to hand it to the woman – she was thorough. Didn't have the police instinct, though. Not like Hermione.

Satisfied with her work for the day, Hermione folded the papers into her traveling desk and locked it tight, laying it on the desk. Then, she dove back for her book. The dragon was about to show the human his hoard, and she knew that there was where the good stuff truly began.

She fell asleep two hours later with the book on her chest, a secret smile on her lips as she dreamed.

* * *

"Alpha," Simidh's low growl jerked Fenrir out of his thoughts. He'd been confined to his room all day, restless and antsy, a feeling that only got stronger when Simidh bared his neck in submission and Fen was able to scent the outdoors on his skin.

He snarled and strode further away, feeling his nails dig into his skin. It'd been a difficult week, what with having to search for Turner and then investigate a murder, then warning the pack not to mention him when the Ministry arrived. Missed his chance for a run, too – he'd planned one the day they'd found his body. Now he'd be cooped up until the murder was solved or the full moon, whichever came first, his only shot at freedom to slope through the night like a common criminal.

A prisoner in his own home. He scoffed. Oh, how times had changed.

"Well?" he asked, stuffing his hands in his pockets to mask the way his fingers were elongating into claws at his frustration.

"They sent a lass," Simidh reported, staying by the door and watching Fen stalk about. "Barely out of school; smells fresh as a daisy, I swear. So much for them taking us seriously."

Fenrir nodded. He'd seen the Pack scrambling about with the gossip from his window, though he didn't have a good enough view to have seen the chit arrive. "Yer keepin' a close eye on 'er?" he asked, turning to face his Beta.

Simidh nodded. "Aye. Isbeil just left her room. Says she's a curious one. Got a reputation for being clever, or so they say."

"Who's 'they'?"

Simidh blinked. "Well, the Pack. And Lavender knows her, too – went to school together, or something."

He tensed at that, his claws digging into his thighs. Ruthlessly crushing his excitement, he growled out, "oh, aye?"

"Aye, Alpha. She's a War Hero or something. You might recall her, actually. Hermione Granger?"

A nasty smirk curled the corner of Fenrir's lips at the name, excitement bubbling inside of him.  _Hermione Granger_. Potter's mudblood pal. The girl who'd so amused him at Malfoy Manor. A strong lass, clever; her screams had been pretty but not as thrilling as her defiance.

If ever there had been an Alpha female…

But, no. He wouldn't risk his pack just to sample the witch. As much as he wanted to, and  _he so wanted to…_

"Keep close," Fenrir ordered. It just wouldn't do, he was too excited now. The sun had set outside and the camp was closing up for the night; he just  _had_ to run. If only to stop him doing something stupid like claiming the girl for his own, as he'd wanted to those years ago. "Warn me if she so much a' moves, a'right?"

"Yes, Alpha," Simidh said, bending his neck again. Fenrir felt the urge to bite him, just to show him who was boss – Simidh was a good Beta but Fen didn't want him to get ideas above his station. Instead, he settled for a snarl that made the man flinch as he passed him in the doorway.

"I'll be out back," Fen dismissed him with a twitch of his wrist and broke into a run, the temptation of fresh air too strong to resist.


	4. Chapter Four

Hermione woke to sounds in the hallway, and cool, pale moonlight lighting the room. She stayed frozen in bed for a few moments, letting her heart come back to normal levels, breathing deeply. Just a nightmare. Not even a particularly scary one, simply the recurring feel of Greyback's breath on her neck, his low growl in her ear. Rubbing her hands across her arms, she felt the hairs pricked up in response to her adrenalin rush.

A breeze whistled across her skin and she leaned into it, the air chilling the sweat. In the hall, someone giggled in a rather sultry manner, and a masculine shout followed the sound of running footsteps. Hermione smiled to herself; of all the creatures she'd studied, werewolves had certainly had the best sex lives, partly due to their feral sides slackening any human hang-up and partly because, well, they were human, and humans as a species were terribly preoccupied with sex. That werewolves had their mates, a single, perfect partner for life, with whom they were comfortable and hid little from only helped.

A door slammed somewhere below, cutting off the noises from the couple and leaving the castle once more in sleepy silence. It would have been relaxing, only, now that she was awake Hermione was no longer tired.

She rolled out of bed and pulled on the nearest thing to hand - a wrap made of some frothy, there material Ginny had given her for her birthday. Pulling it over her shoulders, she wandered to the window.

In the moonlight, the township beneath her was limned with silver, making it appear more model than life. Candlelight flickered here and there, a dog barked and cows lowed quietly from somewhere behind the castle. Otherwise, the night was peaceful, with hardly a person around.

She leaned against the window frame, breathing in the cool air and watching a spider spin its web on the wall beside her. Somewhere above, an owl hooted. It was strange to think there had been a murder here, only a few days before - maybe even at night. Not this late, perhaps, for surely someone would have been woken by the sound of the beating, but perhaps a little earlier? She knew from the sounds and the very nature of the town that very few citizens went to bed early; indeed, as werewolves they were nearly nocturnal, retreating to their beds only when the sun threatened to rise - such as now, only a spare few hours before dawn.

A blank flicker out of the corner of her eye caught her attention, bringing her head spinning around to peer in the direction of the woods. It was a barely-there movement, something she wouldn't have noticed had she not been trained for specifically this situation. Had it been earlier, perhaps someone entering the woods would be less suspicious. But now?

Now, this was a person entering the woods, where a crime scene likely lurked, on the same day an Auror arrived to investigate that very area for evidence of a murder, and at the very time that no one would be around to witness it.

She was pulling on her jeans before she'd even had a minute to become consciously aware of her choice.

* * *

Leaving the castle turned out to be a harder task than first imagined. Mostly because she could swear the walls were moving on their own, confusing her. The walls were unadorned so the views from windows were the only way to orient herself, and the stairs were not where she'd left them. It seemed to her that Hogwarts was not the only magical castle in Scotland, only this one was rather more hostile.

Eventually, she found her way to the main hall, and through that, to the rarely used servants quarters. They were small, here, much smaller than they had been in the English castles she'd visited - smaller even than the Manor houses. Molly had told her that this was because, traditionally, most of their servants were cultivated from surrounding villages, which made sense.

After stumbling into a butler's pantry, a housekeeper's office and several store rooms, Hermione found her exit through a boot room at the back. The door here appeared ill-used, though the detective in her committed the recent footprints to memory; a man's large, bare feet had left through this door recently, which suggested to Hermione that the man in the woods had come from within the castle. She called to mind the men she'd come across that day, but having only met Simidh and Jon, there was hardly a large pool of suspects.

The door itself was a sturdy wooden thing, left unlocked, so she was able to push her way through easily.

The wall surrounding the castle ended somewhere on the edge of the woodland that lined the hill, meaning that from here Hermione could see down across vegetable gardens, the fields to her left where various large, furry cows grazed, an orchard and thick forest all the way to the glistening silver strip of loch, and further, across there to the forest on the other side. The sky was clear, stars twinkling clearly enough for her to identify constellations, the moon shining bright to illuminate the path into the trees.

Having come out with no clear objective but to investigate the movement, she now reconsidered that choice. It was dark, after all, and she was new to the area; chasing phantoms in the woods would be the height of stupidity. Good old detective work would ferret out the perpetrators, she was sure. Instead, Hermione decided to use this time to do some of the background work it would have been difficult to carry out in the daytime; to wit, observing the landscape. The body, she'd been told, had been found in a section of the woods few people used, accessible from this side of the castle. Without a guide, it would be difficult to find, but not impossible. She was Hermione Granger, after all.

Though that, again, should wait until morning,she told herself, pushing down the anticipation of a hunt.  _Don't be stupid,_ she scolded herself, before setting off.

There were several beaten tracks from this door, leading through overgrown grass into the different areas of the grounds. Hermione knew there was a different entrance to the castle through the kitchen, where vegetables and apples were taken after harvesting, so she disregarded all tracks in that direction and instead followed one that appeared recently trod, leading down into the trees.

The forest had the vibe of the settlement; wild, harkening back to some ancient time before wood were merely a tool and inconvenience, standing in the way of otherwise modern living. Some trees on the outside had been felled, it was clear, but the ground was clear of fallen branches and twigs in a methodical way that suggested scavenging was more of a priority than destruction for the people in the village. Younger trees had been planted, too, mere sticks of things fighting their way up to join their ancient antecedents. Looking down the line of the forest Hermione could identify, a couple of hundred feet away, a crudely fenced area in which logs were tied and piled. This, she thought, was where the victim had worked.

She sauntered over to have a gander, unable to think of something better to do. The woods called her, of course, in the same primal way as the Forest of Dean always had; inviting her in to sample its wonders, a home away from home, and, as always, she ignored it, discomfited by the strength of the pull. It brought her back to thoughts of Greyback, too, who had exerted a similar pull over her, for all that he terrified and repulsed her more civilised side.

It also brought her to thoughts of Remus, a rather more pleasant diversion, for they'd formed a close friendship since their shared takedown of Dolohov during the Battle of Hogwarts. At some point she'd have to inform him that she was with his old pack, perhaps even ask for assistance - but not yet. It was her first day, and she had better things to do.

The logging pen was simple, wide and deep, with grass in the centre, away from the chopping area at the sides, churned by the passage of feet into channels of thick, gloopy mud. Tools hung on the wall of a makeshift shelter, the roof protecting them from rust and damp while the lack of a front wall kept them easily accessible to workers. Hermione had to admit that she didn't have the faintest clue what  _exactly_ happened in this pen during working hours, let alone why they required so many different sizes of axe and pitchfork and lengths and thicknesses of wood, but she determined to ask when she had a chance. They had yet to find a murder weapon, after all.

The gate was secured by a loop of thick rope, knotted in an intricate manner that seemed a ludicrously severe security measure given that the gate itself only reached to Hermione's hip. Still, she couldn't unknot it without making it far worse, and instead hopped over the fence, her feet sinking a few inches into the dirt as she landed. With difficulty, she pulled herself out and slipped her way over to the shed, where she found, to her surprise, that the tools had been warded against intruders.

 _Of course!_ Slapping her forehead, she made a ' _duh!'_  face at herself. This was a magical community, no matter how primitive they appeared. And what would a wizarding society do to potentially dangerous tools? Especially with the amount of children in the village; Hermione had counted at least five, all running wild and free within the confines of the Castle walls. Without wards, it would be too easy for one to get their tiny hands on a pickaxe they didn't know how to use, nor could they handle safely.

She filed the information on the tools away in case it was of use later, then started the trek back to the fence. It was only halfway there that her brain sent up an alarm, and she swung around.

There was noone there. She narrowed her eyes. Her instincts were good, had always been good, and despite her general adherence to the laws of logic, she knew when to trust in herself. Any anthropologist could tell you that the human hindbrain has a preternatural sense for danger. She scoped out the surroundings, but it was hard to tell for certain whether there was another presence in the area given the shifting shadows of the forest. Straining her ears, she searched for a sound to betray the presence of another person, but heard nothing.

Reassured, she started to brush off the feeling, only a half-remembered warning from her father when camping as a child came back into her ears, and she froze.

_Nature will flee in the face of a higher predator._

_Fuck._ She was in a  _werewolf village._ Of course there would be no sound - these people lived and breathed the forest! If they were going to obligingly snap a twig for every approaching creature they'd have starved to death by now. Her hand went to her wand automatically, safely stowed in a holster on her lower back. Auror training taught one to keep it in an easily accessible location, and Moody's warnings kept her from popping it in her pocket, but it was one too many run-ins with snatchers, kidnappers and criminals who believed that an  _incarcerus_ would keep her contained that had given her the idea of keeping it there. In her experience, no one expected the Brightest Witch of Her Age to keep her wand anywhere other than the forearm, the favoured location of master duelists everywhere.

"Who's there?" she called, keeping her voice amicable but firm.

There was no answer but for a slight change in the air pressure, as if the wind itself was waiting for acknowledgement. Still, Hermione kept her eyes on the forest. It called to her, darkly seductive.

"Hello?" she called again, to silence. Narrowing her eyes, she huffed.  _Fuck this. I am Hermione Granger, civil rights champion, Auror and War veteran! Order of Merlin, First Class! I am not afraid of things that go bump in the night!_

Keeping in mind her stereotypically gryffindor bravery, Hermione picked a point in the treeline and marched toward it.

The canopy closed over her head with a suddenness that was jarring, the silver shine of the midnight sky sucked away completely by the dark-green, what little light struggled through quickly snuffed out by sheer will of the trees. Hermione was left in the dark, with a sneaking feeling of regret for giving into her idiotic impulse. Again, she remembered that whomever was out her was definitely a werewolf, definitely knew the terrain better than she, almost certainly was dangerous and quite possibly a murderer.

Sonething moved.

 _Run!_ Her brain screamed suddenly, a feeling of terror slamming into her like a brick wall, triggered by only the gods knew what.

But she didn't.

Unaccustomed to taking orders even from herself, she locked her knees and grimaced at the ensuing pain, her teeth bared.

Something in the darkness growled back.

She stopped. Didn't blink. Didn't breathe. All of a sudden, she had the sense of facing something in the darkness, inches away, face to face, eye to eye. Her own eyes watered, no longer scanning the surroundings but staring fixedly at one point, the point that gave her chills.

It wasn't a full moon, she reassured herself. Whatever was out there was human, and fallible. Purposefully, she shoved away the image of Matthew Turner who, despite his enhanced strength and speed, now lay on a table in the basement, his body ripped open like so much meat.

"Show yourself!" she commanded in her most strident tones, learned at the knee of Molly Weasley as she tried to corral her many sons. The very tone that had been known to work on crime suspects and Aurors alike, and even the odd magical creature throughout her studies.

A low, vaguely sinister chuckle rolled out of the trees, nearly stopping Hermione's heart in its familiarity. She struggled to catch her breath, her chest unaccountably constricted, no matter how much she chanted to herself that  _he's dead, he's dead, he's dead._

"Not dead, Miss Granger,"  _his_ voice purred, ensnaring her senses. Just as she tried to convince herself that she was dreaming, he stepped forward, shards of moonlight limning bristled jawline, battered, crooked nose and horrifyingly familiar, deepset eyes with silver. They glittered, malevolent, amused yellow as he smirked. "Just hiding."

Her hand scrambled for her wand even as she stumbled backwards, blood rushing in her ears, mouth opening to do what, she didn't know, but  _something,_ scream, shout, make a characteristically snarky comment-

Her foot caught on something, a branch perhaps, maybe a rock, and she was suddenly tipping backwards, almost in slow motion, eyes still fixed on a face that seemed to furrow in concern-

Blackness.


	5. Chapter Five

When Hermione woke up that morning, she froze in bed, listening for breathing, growling, something to denote _his_ presence. _Fenrir Greyback._ She was frozen, terrified, her heart still beating wildly with the remnants of adrenalin. Her eyes squeezed shut, she listened, and felt, and waited for something to happen.

Only, nothing did. Her arms were on top of the duvet, free to move, curled up over her chest and skin warmed from the sun. She was back in her nightgown, that much she could tell from the bareness of her legs, and her wand was no longer strapped to her back. That caused a stroke of panic, her eyes snapping open, only to see it at eye level on her bedside cabinet, exactly where she'd placed it the night before.

Frowning, she sat up. A dream, perhaps? It must have been - there was no other explanation. It was highly unlikely that Fenrir Greyback saw her pass out, at his mercy, and thought, ‘well, that's the fun over, better get her back to bed’. If anything, she'd been expecting to wake in the dungeons, or his bedroom, or even still in the forest - somewhere creepy, where her terror would be justified.

A nightmare, then. One that was to be expected, she supposed, what with where she was and what she was doing. Sighing, she pushed herself up and began to dress. If there was dirt on her shoes, she put it down to not having worn them in a while, and if her jeans were not still in her bag, then she ignored that, too.

She had better things to do than muse on long dead werewolves, anyway, and packed herself off to breakfast with her notes close to hand.

As she was informed the previous day, breakfast was served buffet-style in the main hall, with several sideboards loaded with trays pushed against the wall. The low murmur of conversation could be heard from the corridor and she used it to orient herself, finding her way in through a side door and filling a plate, carefully avoiding anything particularly raw-looking, and a tray of crumbly meat that could only be haggis. The sausages she frowned at contemplatively, bemused by their shape.

_Square_ . Square sausages. She'd spent seven years at Hogwarts, which she could freely admit was her only real experience of Scotland bar a few nights in Edinburgh for conferences, and had never in her life been provided with _square sausages._

“Odd, aren't they?” a voice piped up beside her, and she turned slightly to see Molly smiling as she piled her plate high with haggis and toast. “You get used to it. They're still sausages, only they fit much better on toast.” As if to punctuate her point, Molly plopped a slice of sausage down on her toast, the edges lining up perfectly. “Try the tattie scone. Bit sweet for my tastes but you'll like it.”

Hermione blinked in confusion, and Molly gestured to a tray of browned triangles, about as thick as the toast. “Erm,” Hermione eyed it dubiously, prodding one with the serving fork and wincing at the spongy texture. “One new thing a day is enough, I think. There's nothing weird about the toast, is there?”

“Only the frogspawn in the crust,” after a pause, in which Hermione _felt_ her eyes widen, Molly threw her head back and laughed heartily. “Jokin’, ducky. It's just bread. White, brown or wholemeal. Though you won't make yourself any friends if you choose wholemeal, I warn you now.” She waggled a knife at Hermione chastisingly. “And you'd best get that sausage, too, lest you be mistaken for a _vegetarian.”_ She said this word with a parody of disgust, her face scrunched up with her nose in the air. “Had one of those, once; he didn't last a week. Come sit with us. Get to know some of the Pack.”

Having no real reason to refuse, Hermione found herself being led to one of the wooden benches, already packed with people, which shouldn't have been surprising, given it was nearly noon. Molly gave her a rundown on the people she was sat with as they approached.

“That's Angus and Carla,” she said, pointing at a couple near the end of the table. Hermione knew they were a couple without being told, despite how they didn't touch, cuddle or hold hands. They had such a coupley aura about them, exclusive of everyone else, with tiny smiles and meeting of eyes. The man had messy white hair, a tan, deeply lined face and a look of adoration in his eyes, while the woman had pin-straight brown hair cut into a sharp bob and a matching loved-up demeanour. “Mated ten years now. Don't worry, they're only like that when nobody's talking to them - otherwise they're quite normal. Carla’s brilliant, she's the reason Simidh managed to get this Castle. Before she turned, she was some sort of DNA specialist in Edinburgh, and now she runs our finances while dabbling in genealogy on the side. Angus runs the tannery, makes the best leather this side of the Channel.” Here, Molly smoothed the roughly hewn leather jacket she wore.

“Then we have Mary-Rose and Mairie Silk,” he continued, pointing to a pair of women sat chatting happily together. Hermione recognised the one wearing the head band from the fruit stall, but not the other, who had bright auburn hair, long and curly, and a friendly, matronly look to her young face. Molly nodded to her as she spoke.

“Mary-Rose has been with us four years, now, our schoolteacher. A real sweetheart, everybody loves her.” Molly paused, then whispered, “well, actually - some of us are a bit suspicious, but that's only to be expected. She's a bit mysterious. No one knows who turned her, and some of the bloke call her Red Riding Hood because of her story… she doesn't like to talk about it, says it's traumatising…”

Molly’s mouth snapped shut, chagrin flashing over her face as if she'd said too much. Abruptly, she gestured to the other women. “Mairie Silk runs the orchard. She goes to town every week to buy other fruit and vegetables, too - the stuff we can't grow here. She's got a bit of sway because of it, people like to suck up to get the food they want. She's mostly fair, though, I think.”

They were close, now, and Molly nodded at the last member of their group, a young man in his early twenties with blonde hair and grey-blue eyes reminiscent of a Malfoy, if a disowned, slightly diluted bloodline. He was watching Molly curiously as they approached. “That's Greg. He's lovely, if in a caustic way. Morning, Greg!”

Greg smiled, making a quick motion with his hands that Hermione took a moment to recognise, and when she did, her eyes widened. Greg caught this and let out a little laugh, nodding a greeting. “Greg’s deaf,” Molly added, somewhat unnecessarily. Hermione could now see the hearing aid embedded into his ear drum.

“Pleasure to meet you,” Hermione replied, her motions slow and unpractised, for it had been a long time since she'd signed. Her aunt had been hard-of-hearing so BSL was something she'd learned while young, but spend so long in the Wizarding World, where everybody but Moody appeared able-bodied, and one was liable to forget the details. Greg didn't seem to mind, however, and slowed his own words down to match hers.

“You're the Auror, then? From the Ministry?” Greg asked, his face curdling on the word ‘Ministry’. When Hermione looked affronted, he laughed again. “Don't worry, I won't hold it against you - we all need a job.”

“Greg!” Molly scolded as she ushered Hermione to her seat. “Don't be mean.”

“No, he's right,” Hermione acknowledged with a wry tip of her head. “The Ministry hasn't exactly shown its best side in the past few years. It's different now, though.” This, she addressed to Greg, her motions sharp with defensiveness. “Kingsley is a wonderful Minister, and he's doing the best he can.”

“He did get us this place, I suppose.” Greg shrugged. “For the Ministry, though, it's too little, too late.”

“You can't blame them forever,” Mary-Rose suddenly said, and Hermione realised she had been listening to the conversation, along with Mairie, who nodded while fiddling with the jewels on her headband. “It wasn't-”

“Hermione!” Lavenders voice cut in, bright and energetic as she shoved her way in between her and Molly on the bench, forcing Molly and Greg to move up. “ _Here_ you are! I thought -” she glanced around the table, a perplexed look on her face. “Well, I rather thought you'd be sitting at the head table. You know, guest of honour and all that?”

“Head table?” Hermione asked, looking around at all the tables - laid out together, not a single one higher or fashioned differently than the others. “Is there one?”

“No,” Mairie said, frowning over at Lavender. “Not officially. She means, with Isbeil and her lot, wherever they are.”

At the thought of sitting with perfect, intimidating Isbeil instead of these kind, welcoming people made a grimace appear on Hermione's face that she couldn't quite control. She wiped it away quickly, but she knew Greg had caught it from the sparkle in his eye. “Don't threaten the poor woman,” he said, a sardonic twist to his mouth.

Lavender, after hearing the translation, rolled her eyes. “It's hardly a punishment. It's an honour - one she's entitled to as an esteemed guest. Ignoring it is a snub, and you shouldn't put up with it, Hermione."

"Oh - I don't mind," Hermione murmured, glancing away from her intense gaze. "I like it here."

"It's not about what you like," the blonde snorted. "It's about _hierarchy._ No-one will respect you if Isbeil doesn't. She's trying to undermine you,  _already_. The cow." Lavender tossed her hair. "Look, next time, just go and sit with her. Show her who's boss, and get yourself in at the top floor. Yes, she's a right bitch - but she's Alpha bitch, so grin and bear it.”

“Can't you tell she's new,” Molly joked, but Hermione was distracted - Greg had just caught her eye and signed, close to his lap and with minimal embellishment, so as not to catch the attention of those around them, two words.

“For now.”

* * *

If she was honest with herself, and she strived to be just that at all turns, Hermione had to say that despite the charm of the Pack, she was glad to be away from the politics and unspoken undertones of their conversation around her. So pleased, in fact, that she wasn't even mad that it was Dr Wallace, pinch-lipped and glowering, that saved her.

The woman approached the table with a sneer reminiscent of a certain Potions Master firmly affixed to her mouth, her whole demeanour that of a person walking to the gallows. “ _Dr_ Granger,” she snapped, butting into a conversation with Mairie about the soil in the area - something Hermione was not particularly interested in, but thought couldn't hurt to know. Apparently, the soil appeared harsh, but thanks to the Loch nearby, was in fact quite kind to trees, so long as they were hardy enough. Mairie grew a few varieties of apple tree, but her pride and joy were the Crispins; “So versatile,” she beamed, with the natural, unadorned glee of the green fingered. “Tenacious little things, full of taste!”

“Good morning, doctor,” Hermione smiled, and gestured to her plate, where only the faintest smear of egg remained. Turns out Molly was right; she _did_ like square sausage. “Will you join us?”

The older woman paused, apparently unaccustomed to the offer, before shaking her head firmly. “No. I ate earlier, before going to _work_.” Here, she looked pointedly at the others, who did credible impressions of not hearing her.

“There's something I want you to see,” she finally grunted, before swivelling on her heel and matching out.

“I don't have to come this time, do I?” asked Lavender with a wince. She'd monopolised both Greg and Molly, now sprawling casually across the bench, her back pressed against Molly’s arm - who looked most disgruntled to have her there - while her legs were slung across Greg’s lap - who looked markedly more pleased. “I have a rule - no dead bodies before three. It's a new rule, yes, but I'm willing to enforce it.”

Hermione snickered, but waved her off. “I'll be fine. It's not my first.”

Lavender smiled beautifically then turned back to Greg, who kept one eye on Molly for his translations. Hermione didn't linger. No doubt there would be more forced socialising that day, and she wasn't about to voluntarily extend a minute of it, not if she wanted to stay sane.

Luckily, Dr Wallace had thought to wait for her just outside of the hall, and thanks to this thoughtfulness, barr a moment or two to bestow upon Hermione a suitably terrifying death stare, they were back in their makeshift morgue in no time.

“I found something,” she said bluntly, and Hermione was grateful for the succinct nature of her speech as it didn't require anything beyond the base professional response. “I won't be able to investigate until the body is dried out, but as I cleaned the wounds this morning - that much, at least, I can try - I noticed…” The doctor folded back the silvery sheet she'd covered the body with to reveal the head, propped up by a small lift beneath the neck and base to allow access to the crown. Dr Wallace gestured her forward, and pointed at a particularly large gash in the top. “Damage to the Parietal.”

Hermione could see that, but that was about all she could see until Dr Wallace brought out her Healer’s wand and positioned a specialty _lumos_ just above the damage.

What little she could examine of the parietal through the wound was, indeed, buckled; tiny fissures ran outwards from the force of the hit, undermining the integrity of the rest of the structure, but the skull itself hadn't caved. Frowning, Hermione looked to Dr Wallace, who had a light in her eyes Hermione hadn't expected to see. “Blunt force trauma,” she said, and the Pack doctor nodded, looking for a moment like she might smile.

“Cause of death?” Hermione continued, only for all hints of burgeoning respect in her intelligence to leave Dr. Wallace’s face.

“Now I see why you're not practising. It's too early to tell without a thorough examination of the corpse, but I would say _not._ All of the other wounds are soft trauma or slashing, biting cuts. Some chunks of skin have been savaged and ripped away. But, there is nothing there to suggest a weapon.” Here, Dr Wallace nodded to the abrasion in the scalp. “ _That_ was done by a weapon.”

“You _assume_ ,” Hermione corrected her haughtily, stung by the comment on her forensic skills. “You say ‘weapon’, and that's a biased read - he could just have easily fallen on a rock. Did you find samples of what caused the wound?”

Wallace snarled silently. “Not that I have yet been able to test.”

“Well, then. Let me know when you have. In the meantime, you're saying this is an old wound? It looks fresh.”

There was the faint sound of teeth grinding from Wallace’s direction, but Hermione ignored it, using a close-by pair of tweezers to gently prod at the lacerated flesh, peering at what lay beneath for any indicators of _how_ it occurred, for while she wouldn't say it out loud until proof had been gathered, proof that was not supposition on the state of a half-drowned corpse, she actually agreed with Wallace. This was no accident.

“Shortly before the death. No longer than six hours. That's my tentative timeline, however, it may change.”

“I hope it does, because six hours could be all the difference in relevance.” Hermione released the tweezers on a side table and straightened, brushing off her clothes. “Please, call me as soon as you find anything new.”

Wallace watched her walk to the door and snarked, “off to play some more with the puppies?”

“Off to do my job,” Hermione snapped back, without turning. And she was. It was time to begin her interviews.


	6. Chapter Six

"She smells of him," Isbeil snapped, not respectfully. "It's  _indecent._ "

Fenrir didn't think so. In fact, he thought it quite pleasant, the way his natural musk mingled with her light, feminine accent to create something new, deeper. The faint undertones of fur and blood matched perfectly with her petrichor sweetness, enticing him entirely.

"And she just  _flaunts_ it, as if it's her  _right."_

Fenrir also disagreed with  _this_ statement. The bitch was getting on his nerves, now. They said that eavesdroppers never heard what they wanted to hear, but he was hearing  _exactly_  what he'd expected. Isbeil had always been a power grubbing harpy, and if he'd met a woman good enough, he would have mated much earlier simply to be rid of her. She walked all over Simidh, his only weakness, and was accustomed to getting what she wanted - always.

"I thought she thought he was dead?" one of Isbeil's admirers asked, the beads in her hair clicking as she tipped her head in question.

Isbeil scoffed. "An act, darling, surely - or if she did, she doesn't now, definitely. There's no way she didn't notice  _that._  Besides, surely you remember all those articles Skeeter wrote - she's a power whore, always has been. Do anything for fame, she will, including shag the notorious Fenrir Greyback."

Now,  _that_ was sadly untrue - as, he thought, were the articles. After the war coverage on her lovelife had ranged from mildly offensive to the outrageously false, and the public ate it up. Granger must have done something bad to piss off Skeeter like she had, because at one point the woman had insinuated the lass had shagged  _Hagrid_ of all people, with no thought at all to the logistics of such a move - for example, how the fuck would it get  _in?_

Isbeil sighed, cutting through his thoughts,affecting a pout. "If only he could find a  _nice_ girl…"

"Oh, yes," the vacuous cows twittered, preening. As if he'd lower himself to mate one of them - as if he'd lower himself to mate with anyone but his True Mate. And, if they were who he thought they were, he could wait; he'd waited this long. Being Alpha, being a proper werewolf, controlling the curse, extended his life to the point that he felt all of thirty, had done for decades, and looked only forty. Would look forty well into his seventies, he guessed. Magic was wondrous, and she would certainly appreciate that.

In the meantime, he would take his pleasure elsewhere, as he'd always done. No amount of loneliness could force him into touching one of Isbeil's minions, someone who she would always have power over.

Suddenly, he had a visceral flash of what Hermione Granger had felt like in his arms - the first time, squirming and crying, in a way usually arousing to his brutal nature yet then off-putting to both his human side and his wolf. Then, hard on its heels, that morning, when he'd caught her before she fell onto the rocky forest floor, and she'd been warm and soft in his arms, endlessly enticing even in unconsciousness, her lips puckered and eyes flickering beneath their lids. He'd truly struggled with himself, then; more than he had with anything else, more than fighting the urge to Turn people, to kill and beat and tear into flesh. He'd been cold turkey on that for years, now, and though the temptation was there, it was nothing next to his overwhelming wish to take Granger, to keep her, to mate, to-

But he'd not done so. It would have been so easy, too, and done with minimal guilt. He still couldn't contemplate taking her unwillingly but the plan, as it had been then at Malfoy Manor, had formed so easily: bring her to his Chambers, keep her there until he could make her love him. He  _could_ , he knew that.

Instead, he'd fought the allure of her scent, so blindingly delicious, and her adorable - adorable, a word he'd never thought to use - murmurs, the way she snuggled into him subconsciously, and taken her back to her room.

He hadn't been able to resist the scent-marking, though. Not massively done, but only a little - a warning, in case any Pack member was feeling frisky. Barely discernible over her natural scent, most of the Pack members wouldn't notice unless they had ill intentions.

That Isbeil  _had_ worried him, but not enough to take action. Granger wasn't his mate, after all.

 _Not yet,_ a voice in his head whispered, and he couldn't hold back the pleased growl that caused.

* * *

Hermione set out for the first of her interviews after a quick detour to Owl her Harrys back in London. Harry the first - Harry Potter, of course - was an Auror over in Dark Magic, which meant that they didn't see much of each other at work, her being in Serious Magical Crime, but liked to bounce ideas off one another when in the swing of an investigation. So much so, in fact, that they had applied (and received) special dispensation to do so from Head Auror Levy. It didn't please Ron, who had gone to work for his brother at WWW, and was therefore left out of their crime-solving circle, but it helped keep their resolution rate up.

He would be receiving an identical letter to Harry the second, who was Hermione's go-to Community Support Auror and general investigative administrative dogsbody. Back in London, the lad (who was in fact five years older than Hermione, not that she cared) would have cleared his schedule to facilitate her investigation from the office, providing long-distance access to whatever the library had left that she hadn't smuggled away already, their forensic labs, other Auror records and whatever else might be useful later on. He also acted as a mouthpiece for Kay, though she suspected his missives were heavily censored in this regard.

The letters were overviews of what had occurred so far, the hierarchy of the Pack, the names of residents - with notes for high priority. She'd marked everyone who'd made themselves known to her as warranting further investigation, including Lavender and Molly, despite how she doubted they'd have the stomach for this sort of crime. Also marked for further investigation was the mysterious Madam Scarlett, who hadn't turned up for breakfast. She refused to overlook a single person, lest it be her fatal mistake - and she had to admit that with a name like 'Madam Scarlett', Hermione doubted she would be inconsequential.

Simidh, when she tracked him down, was only too delighted to assist her in collecting pack members for interviewing. She thought, watching him, that he imagined himself in an episode of The Bill, only significantly hairier, from the way that he was employing (outdated, often wrong, and disturbingly cockney) copper talk left, right and centre. She swore, if he said "Suspect in custody"  _one more time…_

"It's not  _custody,_ Mr. Allaidh, unless we take them  _in!_ Right now, they're just at home!"

"What should I say, then?" the Alpha asked, in a manner all too acquiescent for a man who supposedly led a Pack of violent magical creatures.

"Just - say they're at home?" she huffed. Then, seeing him open his mouth, she growled, " _don't you dare-"_

"Aye, aye, Guv'nor."

" _That's not a thing!"_

* * *

Eventually, they made it to a cabin on the outskirts of the town for their first interview - one which Simidh had tried to sway her from making, but finally succumbed on after Hermione told him it had been his wife's idea in the first place. It was larger than the others, fitting perhaps three of the smaller ones within, and adorned on the outside with shutters for the windows and door. Roses had been carved with an amateur hand into the sills and frames, painted red and green against the brown wood. Inside, lights flickered, and music blared, despite the relatively early hour - it only being one. These werewolves truly did sleep the day away.

"She'll be cleaning," Simidh informed Hermione, raising his hand to knock on the door. "She always cleans in the morning."

Hermione raised an eyebrow at this, but refrained from commenting about the fact that this was neither the morning nor the sort of place a person expected would be so dirty so often. Still, both questions were answered when the music cut off and the door swung open.

A voluptuous woman in her thirties stood there, her inky hair pulled up into a messy bun, another of the Lavender-esque hair accessories the women here were so fond of pinned to the side of her head; a gem-encrusted butterfly that twisted its wings and glittered in the light. She wore a modern fitted dress that came to just above her knee beneath a set of ruby-red robes, and was in the process of removing a floral apron. Her face was possibly one of the most perfect faces Hermione had ever seen, too; rosebud lips on porcelain skin, sculpted eyebrows a shiny blue-black, eyes a striking sapphire that looked entirely too bright to be real. Hermione had a sudden, clear image of an adult Snow White, the sort of woman that while dead had still enchanted a man - a Prince - to the point that he'd happily marry her corpse.

In a blink, the image was gone, and the woman was smirking at her. Hermione, not a connoisseur of the old, muggle tales, narrowed her eyes and slammed her Occlumency shields down,  _hard._ "You give yourself away," she snapped, crossing her arms. Simidh raised an eyebrow at this inauspicious beginning, but the woman just laughed.

"You are Hermione Granger. I never hoped to get away with it." An accent, faint and seductive, underpinned her words.

Hermione scowled, her cheeks burning with both indignation and embarrassment to be caught so off guard. The rage kept her from being intimidated by this statue of a woman, though, so that was nice. "So what was it, then? Wanted to show off? Scare the war hero? Show everyone how strong you are?"

Her smirk merely widened as she cocked her hip provocatively. "I see no need to posture. I live among muggles and heathens; here, I am not only strong, I am the  _strongest._ Why do you think they have been unable to relieve me of my home?" She shot Simidh a poisonous look, and he simply stared back, his face a blank wall off of which her disdain bounced.

"Please, come in," she added after a long moment, stepping back out of the doorway. "I'll clean while you talk. I have a half hour, then I need to check on my batch, so talk quick."

Hermione blinked at this. Batch? But the woman had stepped back and was ushering them in, and Simidh had his hand on the small of her back, so she focused on moving forward and beating the urge to rip his wrist away rather than contemplating what she could be baking that required so much attention.

It turned out, nothing, for she wasn't baking; that much became clear as Hermione crossed the threshold into a large, low-ceilinged room that smelled heavily of hops. Tables were dotted about the room, their surfaces waterstained and sticky, with matching chairs clustered about them; perhaps six sets in all, with eleven more stools lined up at a bar that spanned the back wall. The room was wide but shallow, with a door in the back that led, presumably, to this woman's quarters.

The woman in question moved across to a table cluttered with cleaning apparatus and began to scrub at a particularly tenacious patch of brown sap, gesturing around with her other hand. "Take a seat. Ask your questions."

Hermione took one of the less rickety chairs at a table adjacent to the one she was cleaning, and inched it away slightly when Simidh slid in next to her. "You call yourself Madam Scarlett?"

Hermione was flashed a smile, the woman rolling her eyes. "That is what  _they_  called me, thinking they were so clever, so smart, when I first arrived. Scarlett, for the letter, yes? I accidentally flirted with a man who had a woman back home - innocent mistake, yet one finds herself tarred forever."

 _Well, yes,_ Hermione said to herself as she wrote this down.  _They're werewolves. They mate for life._ In their culture, True Mating was sacred because it was so rare, so desired. This respect spilled over into normal Matings, couplings that worked much like a marriage only one hundred percent of them ended in death, and courting, too, which was a serious commitment among their kind. For Madam Scarlett to have crossed this line, new or not, was a grave offense - and not one easily excused, for Hermione had it on good authority that Mated werewolves stank to high heaven of their mates.

"You are not being wholly honest, Agata," Simidh scolded, his voice rolling out with a timbre Hermione shuddered at, and had Madam Scarlett - Agata? - shrinking.

It took a moment for her to recover herself, and then she was back to her usual, arrogant self. "Business," she said breezily, scrubbing even harder at the table, her eyes averted. "I do not see what it has to do with that horrid man-"

"He was a customer."

"I don't know what you are talking about," Agata rebutted stubbornly, picking up her rag and moving along the line. "I barely knew the man - Martin, was it?"

"Matthew Turner," Hermione corrected her, more as a way to get into the discussion than for any other reason. Both werewolves looked surprised to find her there, as if they'd entirely forgotten she existed. That could be a useful tactic, in some situations, but not when the person you're interrogating was so clearly committed to their silence. Still, she'd learned  _something._ "When you say business..?"

Agata stamped her foot, her accent becoming thick with agitation. "Blind, great hero? I run a bar, see? Look about you.  _Idiotka."_

"That's not all she does," Simidh said grimly, his face curdled. Agatha narrowed her eyes.

"I told you - I do not do that. It was an idea, a failed idea, and you said no, so I no -"

The Alpha bared his teeth and she blanched, stuttering to a stop. "Do not lie to me, Agata," he growled, his lips curling back. "I know  _all._ And so, too, must Miss Granger. Now, will you tell her, gain the trust of the Ministry, or shall I, and paint you in a very bad light?"

Agata paled, her skin turning almost translucent for it. Then, with a suddenness that was startling, she turned to Hermione, her eyes aggressive, furious. Her words were clipped as she made her confession.

"I run a brothel," she informed Hermione. "A business, that is all, a business! I have done nothing wrong but fill a void, service a need, protect our women, and I get  _this?!"_

She seemed to calm with great effort, pulling her neck up straight. "But I never served Martin, and I don't know about his death. Nothing. Now go - I will have no more part of this."

The door slammed behind her when she fled.


	7. Chapter Seven

"Interesting woman," Hermione hummed, flipping through her notes. "How did she come to be here?"

Simidh gave her a reproving look, as if she'd committed some great indecency, rather than ask a simple question, as was the dictate of her  _job._ "She used to work at a factory down in Sheffield. Apparently she was in the habit of long walks at night; enjoyed the moon a bit more than was healthy."

The rest lay unspoken, but the tale was obvious. She certainly paid for this love of the moon. "And she's been with you, how long?"

"Does it matter?" Hermione's expression told him that it very clearly did, and he sighed. "A decade, perhaps. Her bar has been around for a while, and her other… business… has been around at least three years, in various guises, and that's all  _I_ know of it, too. Contrary to what I may say, I am not omniscient."

"But why wouldn't she admit it?" Hermione asked Simidh as they dawdled away from the bar, Hermione making notes with deft slashes of her pen. "Obviously, she's not ashamed."

"Aye, but she's in a lot of trouble," Simidh informed her idly. "Those village girls she uses - they don't know what they're doing. Not mostly; we're werewolves, Miss Granger. As in all things, sex with one of us has strings attached, not the least of which is the danger of being Marked."

Hermione considered this for a moment. She thought of herself as an enlightened woman, and had already spent much of her years in the Magical world becoming accustomed to the idea that many things here were different from how the Muggles did things, including sex work. Sex itself wasn't as taboo, not with Sex Magic being so powerful and revered. Brothels weren't uncommon, and the conditions were better by far than in the Muggle world. Laws were in place to protect those in such institutions, apothecaries received funding for caring for the health of those within. It seemed, however, that in trying so hard to come to terms with the flesh trade she had overlooked the specifics of such an organisation.

As she mulled on this, and all she knew (or theorised) about Werewolf mating, a silvery rabbit pranced through the air to land in front of her, casually itching its haunches with a back paw. " _We're here!"_ it sang, the high, clear voice mildly disturbing.

Hermione had broke into a smile before she noticed Simidh looking at her crossly. "Who's here?" he demanded, crossing his arms to present an immovable figure. "Why are you receiving visitors? Why have you not told me?"

He was obviously panicked, which Hermione found curious, especially when faced with his previously génial countenance. Fear brought out his more lupine characteristics, too; lips curling back into teeth, eyes darkening and taking on yellow flecks. She made a note to investigate this further, for there must be a perfectly good reason for this man, usually so calm and in control, to lose himself over the small fact of an unannounced visitor.

"Mr. Allaidh, surely you were informed that a search party would be arriving to canvass the grounds?" she asked gently, keeping her eyes trained on him for clues as to the cause of his change in mood. "It's Ministry procedure in any case that a crime has been committed. You can't possibly have thought it would have been me, and me alone?"

One look at his eyes showed that he had, indeed. Hermione smothered a disbelieving laugh. "Truly, sir. You needn't worry - they've a special Magical Beings consultant with them to ensure they respect your land and disrupt it as little as possible, and, by the sounds of it, they've also secured the services of one of the most celebrated researchers in the Wizarding World. Between them, I'm sure they will be out of our hair in a matter of days." She went to pat him on the arm in sympathy, ignoring his defensive snarl. "Come, it's not so bad as all that."

This statement, to Hermione's chagrin, was somewhat undermined by the sudden rise of a rapid tapping to a crescendo of heavy footsteps as Jon the Gate Keeper rounded the corner, his face a mask of horror until he caught sight of them. He came to a sudden, juddering stop in front of them, gasping. "Sir - sir," he rasped out, eyes wide. "We're under attack!"

Hermione rolled her eyes at his hystrionics - really?  _Attack?_ \- as Simidh held his hands up in a gesture for calm. "What are you talking about?" he snapped impatiently.

"There's a group o' wizards outside t' gate - loads of them - at least five - and they're just staring up at us - planning an assault, am sure o'it!"

Jon lapsed into silence, panting heavily as he implored Simidh with his eyes to do something. The Alpha turned to Hermione with accusing eyes. "Not so bad as all that, eh?" he demanded.

She scowled at him, then turned to Jon. "Jon, what's your job?" she asked.

He puffed his chest out importantly. "I guard t'gate, Miss."

"Yes, yes, I see that," she nodded sympathetically. "Against attacks and such, I suppose." Jon nodded again, looking proud. "Bearing this in mind, Jon, dear, and the fact that there is - as you say - a group of attackers outside the gate, and you stand here, in front of us, at the back of the compound - well, I have to ask. Who's guarding the gate?"

Jon pondered this for a moment, his head tipping from side to side as he thought, before he suddenly looked up in horror. "Oh, no!"

Without further ado, he turned and legged it off in the other direction, leaving Hermione with a Simidh whose temper was steadily simmering. "I suppose you think you're clever," he spat, lurching forward to follow his pack member's path.

Hermione smiled, her eyes sparkling, her own temper somewhat buoyed by the imminent arrival of friends and allies. She hadn't realised how out of sorts she'd felt the past day until just then, and would be happy for advice. "Brightest witch of my age," she quipped happily, bouncing along behind him.

At the gate, Jon had retaken his position in his hut, peering suspiciously outside over the spine of a battered Georgette Heyer. Hermione took a moment to wonder where he was getting this vast selection of romances, only to note that there was a library ticket on it.  _That_ she would check out later.

"Auror Granger!" the head of the small group beyond the gate hailed her, and she grinned back at them. There were only five, as Jon had suggested, including their assigned consultants - one from DRCMC and the other a freelancer - the others being Junior Aurors fresh from passing their basic forensic exams. One step up from Harry the Second's position, these kids - for one of them was quite obviously a clever eighteen - were specially trained in searching, finding and retrieving without damage weapons, people and evidence under a multitude of circumstances. Their department was perhaps ten-strong, run by Susan Bones, who was perhaps the only person in the Department Hermione was genuinely afraid of, not least because she had somehow struggled through a relationship with both Weasley twins for the last year and a half, with no visible side-effects. Her Aurora were possibly the most efficient Hermione knew of, and highly in demand.

They were not who caught Hermione's attention, however. "Consultant Lovegood!" Hermione beamed across at her friend, walking as quickly as she could without appearing unprofessional. "How lovely to see you."

"We're right on time, I see," Luna hummed, taking both of Hermione's hands in her own. "You seem to have a problem with Dinglesplots. They cause frustration, you know."

"I'm not frustrated, Lu," Hermione smiled. "But thank you for thinking of me."

"She means  _sexually,_ but she's too polite to say so," another voice said, emerging from the crowd.

"Tonks!" Hermione spared the metamorphagus a quick hug. The woman had been injured in the war, an insidious curse that had been stopped before it killed her, but left her musculature too damaged to allow for running and duelling to the quality needed for an Auror; Dolohov's final act. Instead, she was the designated Magical Beings consultant for several departments, but everyone knew that simply meant 'werewolf consultant', being as she was married to one. Usually she was kept to cases involving lone wolves, since Hermione had more experience with Packs, but since Hermione would be unable to oversee the search team, her purview had been extended.

"So tell me," Tonks asked quietly, wrapping her arm around Hermione's shoulders, "do they all look like  _that_? Because if they do, I'm asking for a trade-in."

"Tonks!" Hermione repeated, shocked through her giggles as Tonks leered jokingly at Simidh. "That's their Alpha! And he's  _taken_." She remembered Isbeil's fierce, terrifying eyes and grimaced. "Very, very taken."

Tonks raised an eyebrow. "Ah. That's just as well, I suppose. I'm getting quite fond of the one I have at home."

Hermione snickered as they reached Simidh, who had stayed back for the express purpose of eyeing them all suspiciously as a group. "Simidh Allaidh, this is Consultant Nymphadora Tonks-Lupin, and Consultant Luna Lovegood. Mr. Allaidh is the current Alpha of the Northern Pack."

"Pleasure to meetcha," Tonks said, deftly shaking his hand. Simidh frowned, sniffing the air in a way that he surely thought was surreptitious.

"You're Mated," he blurted out, nearly reverently, then glanced behind her as he yanked his hand from her grip, wary, as if he expected Remus to be looming silently over her shoulder, ready to rip his throat out for having the temerity to touch his mate.

"Kind of you to notice," Tonks beamed insincerely. "Now, if you'll kindly show us to the crime scene, I can do my job."

Simidh blinked, startled, then nodded. "Please.. Follow me." And marched off through the gate. Tonks and her little ducklings followed, with Luna lingering behind to walk with Hermione. She looked to Simidh, then back to Hermione knowingly. "Wrackspurts."

* * *

 

All the kit came out, each of the Aurora with looks of concentration on their faces as they scoured the area where Matthew had been recovered, wand in one hand, various tools in the other. Their eyes were mostly fixed on the ground, though one walked along the shore peering out across the Loch, and another was staring up into the trees. Hermione had to admit that she only understood about half of what they were doing, but not out loud, and kept a slightly superior look on her face throughout in case the others dared to question her.

Tonks made a token effort to help, but spent most of her time doing her real job, which was preventing the Aurors from affecting the environment too much, and keeping their scent confined so that it wouldn't be too much trouble during the next full moon. She kept an eye on each of them to ensure they weren't going to wander off and get into trouble, and she'd be in charge of squiring them back through the village at the end of the day, too.

Luna, however, was intricately involved in proceedings, though Hermione could not say how or why she thought that. The girl tottered around from tree to tree, dipping her feet in the water and wading out, only to turn back without doing anything. The little Aurors seemed to take their cues from her, however, shifting across the environment at her every twitch.

Hermione took a good look around, noting down anything that would be helpful to her immediate investigation, but there wasn't much. This wasn't the place he'd been killed, that was clear, and so there wasn't much to see; drag marks nearly obscured from where he'd been taken from the water, footprints from those who'd retrieved him; two male, one smaller that Hermione supposed belonged to the woman she hadn't met yet but Simidh had mentioned in his report, Peg. Simidh claimed that the other man who'd joined him was Martin Forsyth, Matthew's neighbour. Hermione would have to speak to him, too. She noted those two down as priorities, with Forsyth given the top spot since he was the last to see the man alive. She also thought she'd better see Madam Scarlett - or Agata, she supposed - again, alone, and hope that the woman would be more forthcoming without Simidh around.

After a while of watching them skitter around like ants, Hermione couldn't watch impotently any longer. "I'm going to go back, check on the good Doctor, do some more interviews," she murmured to Luna, who'd passed close to her to examine some huge, shiny bug on the trunk of a tree. When she didn't reply, Hermione just shrugged and wandered back.

The forest wasn't at its thickest where they were, but it was by no means thin, and on their way in they'd had Simidh to guide them. Hermione set off following the footprints they'd left on the way in, but as she drew deeper, the tracks became difficult to discern, and soon she found herself wandering away, into an unfamiliar part of the forest. Still, she trekked on, basking in the pale light filtering through the leaves, casting green shadows. She knew she'd emerge at some point, but as the sounds of the search party faded she felt isolated, wild, and it was comforting.

A breeze whistled through the branches, cooling her skin, a quick caress that made her shiver. Suddenly, she felt eyes on her, steady and unblinking. A judder crashed over her, remembrance jarring her mind, and she glanced about.

She knew this area, she realised. Ahead, the trees thinned, and she could just make out the stone of the castle from where she stood. To her left stood a distinctively warped tree, and over to the left, she saw, were footprints.

Her own footprints, mingled with large, heavy ones.

_Oh, my god._

Dizzy. Faint. She threw a hand out for support, gripping the bark of the nearest tree with her nails to keep her upright.

 _It wasn't a dream_.

 _Greyback was alive_.

She remembered waking up in her own bed, redressed in her nightgown, clothes piled where she'd left them. Wand exactly where she'd put it.

 _How did he know_?

And, what did this mean for her investigation?

She wasn't sure how long she stood there, fighting through knee-jerk fear to try and piece the matter together, but the next thing she knew was footsteps, and she instinctively darted behind the tree to hide. A woman, old and crooked, wandered lightly into the clearing, a gnarled cane clearing her path. Scars crossed her visage, marring an otherwise pretty but worn face, but she stood with a regal bearing Hermione couldn't help but admire.

The woman crossed into the centre of the clearing and propped her cane up in the mud, leaning against it without appearing to notice how it sank several inches into the ground. Her cloudy eyes danced across the clearing, pausing on the footsteps, on the path they wove and how Hermione's turned dragging, then disappeared entirely. They came to rest on her tree, though, and while Hermione was certain she couldn't see her, the regard was still penetrating.

"Idiot boy," she declared, tapping her fingers on the hilt of the cane. "Never did get the hang of cleaning up after himself. There's only so much a mama can do, you know, and his mama didn't try half as hard as most."

Hermione was frozen, as if not moving negated the fact that she was there, could apparate her seamlessly into her room and away.

"Well, don't just stand there like a daft 'un, lassie! Come out, let me see you. I want to have a look at the girl who my boy risked himself to meet, if you don't mind. Then we'll have us a nice chat."

Despite there being no sinister tone to her voice, no threat, Hermione still bristled. Her pride propelled her out, but she did all she could to prevent it appearing submissive, even going so far as to swagger slightly, despite how when she practiced it in the mirror it'd looked constipated. "You must be Peg," She said, respectfully, holding out a hand as if she'd not just been hiding behind a tree. "I'm Auror Hermione Granger, it's a pleasure."

"I know who you are," Peg told her boisterously, her grip surprisingly firm as she shook. "Never has a lassie caused so much of a commotion. That Isbeil has a right bee in her bonnet, and I'm thinkin' Agata ain't far behind her, neither. Poor Simidh is sick to the back teeth of answering questions, and my boy is going stir crazy upstairs. Really, lass - I'm almost proud."

A smile tickled Hermione's lips, but only for a brief second, because then Peg tightened her grip to the point that Hermione could feel her bones grinding together and it took all of her self-control not to flinch. Peg's eyes burned into hers. "Fen didn't do this, so he's none of your business, you hear me, girl? If he wants to show himself to you, wants to trust you, then that's fine - don't you go looking for him. Don't you drag him into trouble. And  _don't_  tell anybody he's here. That boy has been through a hard time, and he's come out of it good - I won't have you ruin it.

"And don't you underestimate me, Hermione Granger," she added with a pleasant smile. "I may be old, but I've been a Pack female my whole life, and an Alpha for sixty of those. I'm a scrapper, and I've never met a fight I can't win. Do not hurt my boy, little Granger."

Gaping, Hermione tried to reboot her bodily functions, because it seemed to have gotten really difficult to breathe. In the meantime, Peg seemed to have pulled her little old lady act back into place, for she was shivering and pulling her shawl over her shoulders. "Well, are you coming?" she asked tartly after a minute. "I've had that Mairie make us some tea, and I don't want it to get cold. Come on. My old bones cant stand this cold for long. Idiot boy - couldn't have set up a home in Kent, could he?  _No,_ the  _Highlands_  is a brilliant place. When I see him next, I'ma…."

The old woman tottered off and, for some unfathomable reason, Hermione found herself following. Which just goes to show that brains really do not equal wisdom


	8. Chapter Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi!  
> It's short, I'm sorry about that, but it seemed like the best place to cut it, and Peg will fight anyone who days she doesn't deserve her own chapter - and she fights _dirty_.   
>  Enjoy!  
> Love, Eliza x

"Ah, much better," Peg sighed as she lowered herself into a worn old armchair by the fire. "Don't you think, girl? Nothin' better than a cuppa on a cold day. Don't just stand around - sit down! Put your feet up. Don't know how you run about all day like you do, but I suppose that's the beauty of youth."

Hermione eyed the sofa the woman was indicating warily. She wouldn't class herself as a snob, not really, but this one seemed a tad past its expiration date, with the upholstery in places worn so thin that Hermione could see the wooden framework beneath, the cotton stuffing squashed flat as a pancake. Perhaps Peg might be able to sit comfortably on it, being approximately the size and shape of your average twig, but Hermione had a bit more heft to her. Seeing that the woman wasn't going to talk until she'd been seated, however, she perched herself on the edge of the seat, wincing at the loud creak the movement caused.

Peg nodded satisfactorily and waved at the tea. "You play mam, won't you? These old bones…"

Having seen the old faker walk briskly from the woods to her room on the second floor without so much as a grumble, Hermione was starting to think that those old bones of hers were more sturdy than she made out. Her grandmother had been of the same school of behaviour, however, and so Hermione knew that she'd not get what she wanted until the other woman did, too; she poured them each a cup of rich, brown tea and forced herself to relax.

"Right, then," Peg began, sniffing her tea in satisfaction. "Matthew Turner, in't it? I never liked him, but I kept tabs, as any Elder worth their salt does. That's why I'm still here, see, but poor Andrew… He never liked to pry, the fool. Didn't see his death comin', either, so he was punished enough for it."

"Andrew?" Hermione asked, somewhat bemused. She was still stuck, in her mind, about ten minutes back and the revelation that had come forth. Reconciling her memories with reality was proving difficult, as was finding the brainpower to comprehend that Fenrir Greyback, notorious mass murderer and worse still, yet lived. Lived, and had this seemingly kind, somewhat sweet woman as his champion.

There were two explanations that made sense; either she, herself, was going mad, or Peg was. And given that Hermione placed such value in her mind, it only made sense that the madness was placed on the elderly woman in front of her.

As for the tracks in the forest? Well, werewolf packs were known for their internal squabbles. There were dozens of other explanations for it she could think up, especially now that she was rational once more.

If Peg was mad, however, that left a Hermione in somewhat of a quandry; how to escape?

One didn't want to upset a mad person, that much Hermione had learned during the war ( _cough, cough,_ "it's a copy!",  _cough)_ so she thought that perhaps playing along would be the wisest choice here. In the interests of that, she pulled her mind back to the present.

"Andrew was our other Elder," Peg was saying with a mildly disapproving moue. "Bit of an idiot, to my mind, but makin' it to a hundred in this environment automatically affords one a bit of respect, and so he was our male Elder, lording it up in his hut givin' 'advice' to all the menfolk. Not good advice, like, no' like mine - my troop of lasses are about the wisest you'll find around men this thick - but they heeded him, 'cause like I said, the men are thick. Fen, bless him, has half a brain which makes him miles above some of the Pack we had then, but he still listened when Andrew said 'oh, le's go t'war, that sounds a right good time'. O'course, Andrew remembers the Great War, an' he had some fun then, I tell you. Died, though, Andrew did - rebounded Killin' Curse. How does a Killin' Curse rebound, you ask me? Damned if I know - I wasn't there. I'm clever, see, and I knew this war was bad business from t'start, so I stayed home."

She lapsed into silence, looking at Hermione expectantly. She looked right back, not certain of the etiquette. Was she meant to say something? "That's a shame," she commented lamely, and the woman huffed out a laugh.

"Oh, aye, and you would say that, wouldn't you? Wouldnae want the Pack to think the Ministry lass has no heart. Well, I tell you, it was no shame, and neither is this business with Matthew Turner. He got what was coming for him, and good riddance to the lad, an'all."

This rocked Hermione back, throwing her weight onto the rickety old sofa which sent up a squawk of protest. "Excuse me?"

Peg let out a pleased smirk. "I can bet no one's told you that afore, no? They all like t'worship the dead as if they're saints, but it just makes 'em hypocrites. Me, I'm too old for this faffin' about. He was a bad apple, and no one's crying for him - 'cept maybe his kiddies, but they'll have been crying over the daddy that abandoned them for years now, so it's nothin' new."

There were no real words to answer that, so Hermione moved on in her way, abruptly and without conversational finesse. "Why do you say that? 'Bad apple'? It seems very harsh." Resolved as she was not to take Peg seriously, it was too difficult; her winding, blunt way of seeing the world was enveloping, Hermione could see why the younger women came to listen to her.

"Always had a hand at 'ready for a grope," Peg explained blithely. "One of those you don't fancy getting too close to. You're lucky his corpse ain't mobile, in life there was no woman who came close to him that escaped without an 'accidental' touch. If not more. Some of the lassies like that kind of thing, I hear, so he were never hard up for it. Didn't stop him trying for more. I thought we'd done away with his type during the war - a whole bunch of the bad lot seemed to fall to others' wands during, see, and a blessin' that was - but him? Nothin' short of a good kicking could take him down."

Hermione was taking notes now, which Peg observed with satisfaction. She seemed to like the feeling of importance that came with the interview; some people did. Others shied away from the questions, in a manner similar to that of Madam Scarlett, not always because they had something to hide but often. Hermione would pin Peg's openness on the fact that she seemed to think her big secret had already been revealed.

Questions jammed the margins, and Hermione wasn't sure which way to go, so took a stab in the dark. "You saw the body when they discovered it?"

"Aye, I did. All bloated an' sickly, like he'd gorged himself at t'ceilidh and never bothered t'dance. Sad sight, he was. Would give me nightmares if I hadn't seen worse. Coming out of War, o'course, you'll understand. What's one beaten man next to a hall rammed with the dead?"

Sharply, Hermione skewered Peg with a look. "How did you know about that?"

A lazy grin. "My, little Granger. Defensive, aren't you? Don't worry - t'was just me pack, reporting home."

Something in her smile put Hermione on edge, stiffening her shoulders. At random, she chose a final question, and threw it out with staccato clicks of her teeth. "Who are these women who went with Matthew?"

"A fair few, I dare say. Werewolf lasses do like their bits o' rough. Even Mary-Rose took a spin, once, though she regretted it once she heard the details floating 'bout the Hall in the morning. Matthew wasn't discrete. Your Molly never did, though, so you rest easy on that score. He preferred the new 'uns, unclaimed, unused to the environment. Air might be full o' testosterone, hereabouts, but it only takes a few weeks before the lassies realise who's really got the power, and the menfolk like to get in there afore that happens. While they're still vulnerable."

Hermione nodded her understanding and made a movement to pack away her things, which gained her a huff from Peg. "Got what ye come for, then, did ye? Impolite to leave so quick, but who am I to judge ye?"

"I'm sorry," Hermione apologises stiffly, in more ways than one; at some point during the conversation, a spring had broken its confines and stabbed into her arse through her jeans. She was mentally counting backwards to the last time she'd had a tetanus jab. "You gave me so much to think about, I need to go back and compile it. Sometimes," She confided in a slightly hopeless tone, only really believable because it was true, "I get so caught up in work that manners go out the window. My friends are always nagging me about it."

Peg seemed to soften at this, her eyes drifting slightly as if lost in a memory. "My Freki was the same… ah, go on then, lass. Get on with it."

Grateful for the reprieve, Hermione slipped away, her mind boiling with questions despite her unease. Peg was, indeed, a fountain of information. The real question was: how much of it was reliable?

* * *

"She thinks I'm mad," Peg announced, voice laced with amusement. "Dotty ol' Peg - can ye countenance it?"

"Not me," Fen drawled, slipping through the door to get bathroom and leaning against the wall. He loved his Nana, but there was no way he was risking himself on that deathtrap of a sofa.

"Did you ever see anyone so well versed in denial?" Peg stared at the spot where Hermione had sat. "The poor child. What she must have been through…"

"She's a warrior," Fen growled, the thought pleasing him.

"She's but a slip of a thing," Peg commented, in the same tone, happily disregarding the curves that do entranced her grandson. "Reminds me of your grandfather at that age. All that potential, squandered on the Ministry. You plannin' to fix that, boy?"

"No' much I can do from the grave," he said thoughtfully.

Peg happily levered herself to her feet, pottering around to clear away the untouched tea. "Give the lass a day or two. Let her get comfortable. And -" from the sink she turned a stern eye on Fenrir, "-no more popping up in the night. Once is enough."

"Did I no' take her back to her bed?"Fenrir grumbled petulantly.

"Do you think you could resist temptation again?" Peg countered. "I didn't think so. She needs to get invested, so she won't go sellin' you down the river. Not like you made a good impression on her, is it? Give her a day or so, let the Pack draw her in. Then you can charm her."

_Charm?_ Fenrir just about stopped himself from scoffing. He'll court her, aye, but  _charm?_ That might be a bit beyond him. "Yes, Peg," he said anyway.


	9. Chapter Nine

Hermione's first impression of Abigail Sweeting could only have been summed up as 'wild'. The girl, somewhere between eight and ten by Hermione's judgement, was a redhead with sharp little teeth and intelligent eyes that followed her about the room as she moved to take a seat beside her. Her hair was it's own, feral entity, not unlike Hermione's at that age, flying around her head in a nimbus of red-gold curls. The girl listened carefully as Mary-Rose, who'd insisted on being present for the interview, chatted kindly about what was about to happen, but her unnervingly pale eyes stayed on Hermione.

She took up very little space on one side of a sofa, curled into the juncture between the back and arm, her arms and legs curled in right. Harmless. The very picture of innocent youth. All the same, Hermione felt as if she were being hunted, prey, as she came closer.

"Abigail?" she asked, her tone gentle. "I'm Hermione Granger, from the Ministry. I'm here to ask about the man you found in the Loch."

Abigail gave a suspicious growl, warning Hermione to step back, and the woman shot a pleading look at Mary-Rose. "Abigail…" Mary-Rose warned, and the girl frowned.

"Miss Mary says you're here to help," Abigail said, expression querulous, her lips turned down at the corner. "Why do you want to know about Mr. Turner?"

Hermione would readily admit she was shite with kids. She always spoke to them like they were adults, which served to piss off the parents and confuse the child. For the sake of the investigation, however, she'd try.

"I help by catching the bad guys," She told her seriously, bringing her notebook from her pocket. "To do that, I need to learn everything I can about the people they've hurt. Bad people hurt Mr. Turner, so I need to know all about him, you understand?"

Abigail's lips pursed in a very adult motion. "But I didn't know Mr. Turner. He didn't like children very much. I just found his body, and he didn't look very much like Mr. Turner then. He looked like Stanley did after the last full moon - remember, Miss Mary? Angus had torn him all up 'cause he was sniffing about Mrs. Carla and his face was all -" her little brow furrowed as she searched for the word, "-shredded!"

Hermione blinked in surprise, her eyes sliding across to Mary-Rose, who grimaced. "There was another murder?"

"Not a murder," she replied defensively. "It was a full moon and a territorial dispute - there are provisions for them in the legislation."

"Not for killing people!" Hermione replied, her whisper somehow shrill.

"We didn't kill 'people'," Mary-Rose hissed back, "He killed a werewolf, which is legal. Werewolf on Werewolf fights can result in death without consequence as long as it occurs on Pack territory. That's the law - we rule ourselves."

 _I know that! I wrote the damn thing!_ Hermione took a deep breath. She  _had_ written it, yes, but she'd never considered the real life application. How many fights ended in death, here, without any legal repercussions? She closed her eyes for a minute, took another long, deep breath, and pulled herself back to the present.

"You weren't aware it was Mr. Turner at the time?" She asked Abigail, who'd watched their discussion avidly.

She shrugged. "Di'nt think it were no-one. Too busy screaming. Alpha says it was Mr. Turner, and Alpha never lies."

Hermione leaned forwards, her elbows on her knees as she tried to form the question. "Did you notice anything… odd about Mr. Turner when you found him?"

Her little face squeezed into an expression of utmost concentration. "Like as how he was all squishy? Or d'you mean like he were holding that-" she broke off, flushing bright red.

"What, Abigail? What was he holding?" a feverish feeling broke over Hermione's skin, adrenalin telling her that this was something important.

The little girl avoided her eyes, looking at the floor. "Di'nt think it were nothin' important," she muttered. "An' it were so pretty, too."

"What was it?" Hermione pressed, shooting a concerned look at Mary-Rose. Whatever it was, it was clearly important if it distressed the girl so much.

"Don't tell mum, please? I didn't mean no mischief, I swear!"

"Oh, honey!" Mary-Rose cracked, hurrying over to comfort the girl, who was close to tears, now. "Don't you worry, I'm sure Auror Granger is the  _most_  discrete, aren't you, Hermione?"

She didn't need the hardness of the woman's tone to prompt her, already nodding as she added, "as long as you tell me everything, Abigail, anything you tell me will remain just between the three of us, your Alpha and the Ministry."

Abigail looked between the two of them and gave a firm nod, seemingly coming to a decision. One shaking hand reached up and dug around in the wilderness of her hair, pulling out a thin, sparkling object. "Oh, Abigail," Mary-Rose sighed, her disappointment palpable. This proved to be the final straw for a visibly distressed Abigail, who promptly burst into tears.

"Mum won't let me have one," she wept holding it out for Hermione to take,which she did, wandlessly and wordlessly conjuring an evidence bag for the girl to drop it in. "She's says they're whore's jewellry, an' no daughter of her will be caught wearing it!"

Anger darted through her and she turned to Mary-Rose, who was stroking Abigail's shoulders soothingly. "Later," she mouthed, and Hermione nodded briskly.

"And Mr. Turner was holding it, you say?" she asked, lifting the bag to examine its contents. It was a long, silver hair grip, the colour tarnished from the water, though Hermione could tell that Abigail had made a valiant effort to clean it up a bit, which had her pursing her lips in disapproval. Lifting evidence from it now would be a trial, but not impossible. It was pretty, if not her style; the end was adorned by a sparkling butterfly, its wings engraved and decorated with various shades of pink and purple, the body formed of clear beads cut to look like diamonds. It was good work, infused with magic, though Hermione wouldn't be able to tell what the spells were until she had the chance to do a forensic analysis.

"Sorta. It was caught in his pocket, too." Abigail wiped her eyes with the back of her hands. "D'you think it'll help?"

She was dubious on that point, but to make the girl feel better, she nodded. "It might be just what I need. Thank you, Abigail."

* * *

 

The corridors were lit by the soft late afternoon light, and Hermione was wondering exactly how long it would take to do her next interview. It felt like she'd been working for days, now, though it had only been a matter of hours. She'd been closeted away with Peg for only a half-hour, and searching the bank had taken twice that before she'd left. Did she have time to reinterview Madam Scarlett, she wondered. It was a bit late to go to anyone else.

"Auror Granger!" Mary-Rose had followed her out of the room and stood just behind her, looking apprehensive as she folded her hands in her long skirt. "I just - are you going to punish Abigail for what she did?"

"Abigail?"

"Yes," she took a step forward, her eyes pleading. "I know evidence tampering is serious, I understand that, but… can't you please keep her out of it? She didn't know what she was doing, and if her mama finds out…"

Hermione narrowed her eyes at this mysterious 'mama', already feeling antipathy towards the woman the girl feared. "And who is her mama - mother," she caught herself, inwardly rolling her eyes at her slip.

"Emma Patterson, but she's not that bad, just protective of her daughter. One of Isbeil's crowd." Mary-Rose sighed, sweeping a strand of hair out of her face. "It's a delicate situation. Abigail is to be mated to Michael, that's Charles' eldest, when she's old enough, so Emma likes to keep her close, but Abigail keeps getting into mischief and Michael says if she does one more thing wrong he won't have her. So, you see… he can't know about this, and neither can Emma. Please."

This was  _far_  too much information for Hermione, who simply couldn't process anymore Werewolf weirdness that day. Groaning at being dragged into another difficult situation, she simply shrugged. "I won't tell her," she promised.

"That doesn't mean  _I_ won't," another voice said, silky, amused. Dread, thick and noxious, dropped into Hermione's stomach as Isbeil detached herself from a shadow and stepped between them. "Mary-Rose, you're dismissed," She said, flicking her fingers at the woman without breaking eye-contact with Hermione.

For some reason Hermione couldn't discern, Mary-Rose actually looked to  _her_ , as if for permission, before she acceded to that 'request'. She gave her a nod before she'd even realised what she'd done, and was gratified to see that Mary-Rose looked as shocked as she did at the action. Isbeil eyed her with that same dark, malicious glint that she'd had that first night and Hermione couldn't pretend it didn't exist any longer.

"That mating will happen," she said as an opening, the announcement brusque even as they were cloaked in velvet by her accent. "I want it to, and that's the only reason I'm letting the child's behaviour pass. But, listen to me, Miss Granger - that is  _my_  decision, not yours." She bared her teeth in a facsimile of a smile, full lips curling back. "You're sticking your nose in where it is not wanted, now, little Auror. You don't belong here. Keep to yourself, do your investigations, then leave. As soon as possible, if you please."

"But-" nope, the woman was already stalking off, her lithe movements intimidating all by themselves. Hermione's emotions were torn between anger at being so readily dismissed, and reluctant admiration for the woman who was able to run this crazy,  _crazy_ place.

Finish the investigation, get out of here. It sounded good.

* * *

 

"Hermione!" Hermione's head whipped around at the call, seeing Lavender bouncing towards her down the hill, full of exuberance. "Hi!"

"Hi, Lav." She waved, just about able to keep trepidation from her voice. She could face off against any number of criminals; one chirpy blonde, however? Especially if that blonde had grown up living in the same room as her and therefore had been there for most of her embarrassing moments. Half-cat? She saw it. First crush? Laughed her face off at that. First period? Well, actually, Hermione had dealt with that much better than Lavender herself, what with the other girl's mother being the way she was, but it was still a point. "What can I do for you?"

Lavender huffed to a stop next to her, bending slightly, her hand clamped tight to the stitch in her side. "You'd think being a werewolf would at least make me fitter, eh? But no. Are you off into the village? I'll join you. Got to get to work." She grinned brightly. "Me, work! It's crazy, isn't it. I always thought I'd just get married and raise a few kids, make sure yours had someone to terrorise at school."

Hermione had to admit that she, too, had some difficulty picturing effervescent Lavender as a diligent worker, but it took all sorts, she supposed. "Were you up at the castle?"

A surprisingly puckish smirk tipped Lavender's plush lips. "Oh, yes. I saw you leaving and thought I'd join you. More interviews?"

Hermione nodded absently, in her head already attempting to list the interviews in the most helpful order. Then, all of a sudden, she realised that, well,  _Lavender._

"You live here," She said abruptly, turning on her heel to face the other girl, stopping them both in their tracks.

Lav looked at her oddly. "Well, yes. For several years now. What, did you think I was just visiting? Because I know we were never all that close, Herms, but surely even you know this isn't the sort of place I'd choose to spend my time." She flailed a hand at their surroundings. "I mean, come on. Rustic might be back right now, but, really. Look at the  _mud!"_

Stopping herself from rolling her eyes took painful amounts of effort. Lavender was so - well,  _daft_. There was no other word for it. Not everyone could be clever, of course, but surely they could all be  _normal?_ "No, dear," she said in a mild voice, because she'd heard once that loud noises and quick movements could set her off (or maybe that was bears, but surely the principle was the same?). "I've just remembered that I need to interview you."

"Me?" Something flashed across her face that Hermione didn't quite catch, quickly hidden behind an expression that she could only describe as ditzy. "Why me? I didn't know the man. Mayhew, was it?"

Suspicion curled inside her gut, though that might have been the habit of years catching up to her. "Matthew, Lavender, and you must have known him. There are less than a hundred people in this village; it's a fraction of the size of Hogwarts, and Merlin knows you knew everyone there." Perhaps she was a bit sharp, but she was getting awfully tired of people 'forgetting' his name as an excuse not to tell her what she needed to know. It was disrespectful, not only to her, but also to the poor guy downstairs. No matter how much of a pervert he was purported to be, he'd still died in a manner no person should ever have to suffer, and Hermione was tasked with bringing that person to justice. A mission she would fulfil, no matter how many heads she had to crack - or skeletons she had to drag out and dust off - to do it.

Lavender tipped her blonde head to one side, the chips of rock in her headband glittering in the dimming sunlight. "Maybe I ran into him once or twice," she allowed, rolling the words about her mouth. "Like you said, it's hard not to, in a place like this. I didn't  _know_ him, know him, though - we never spoke. I know some of the women had problems with him - too grabby, too flirty - but he didn't try any of that with me. Not that he ever got a chance," she added, quickly, her eyes skittering away from Hermione's to stare over the village. "I'm not… they're weird about unmated females here, so I stay mainly with the women. Much easier company, if I'm honest."

Hermione had found the very opposite to be true throughout her lifetime, actually, and she knew that as a teen Lavender had never lacked for male companionship, either. Here, where her scars were not the shameful taboo the wizarding world considered them, Hermione would have assumed she'd do well. On the grand scale of lies she'd been told, however, this one barely registered, so she let it slip away. For now.

"Weird how?" she asked instead, following Lavender's gaze as she gave a cheerful wave. Mairie Silk, from her stand in the centre of town, waved back at them hesitantly. Hermione couldn't see her expression from where she stood, but she got the impression that the woman was somewhat confused by the attention. "You and Mairie are close?"

"Not really," Lavender smiled, still waving for some unfathomable reason. It was getting awkward. "But the farmer's market is tomorrow morning, and she'll be going into town. If I'm nice enough, maybe she'll take me - I desperately need more ribbon." Thankfully, she  _finally_  dropped her hand. "And just weird. Mated females are like treasure around here, and they make up most of Isbeil's crew. Carla's an exception, she's actually pretty cool. The rest of them swan about like they own the place, and their males fall at their feet to do their bidding - when they're not dragging them off by their hair to fuck."

Lavender gave a somewhat wistful sigh, staring in a different direction, now, longing written across her face. Hermione shifted her gaze to there, too, but she could see nothing but a cluster of huts. "The unmated girls, though," Lavender continued, her tone clear of any emotion but her usual empty perk. "You have to understand that women only make up less than a third of the population here. We're in demand. All the time, we're either being courted or propositioned or fought over, and the mated couples are always watching us, waiting for us to join their ranks." She gave a bitter shrug. "I didn't think I'd ever say this, but all I want to do is work and make a life for myself. I'll mate for love, not because I'm desperate for companionship. That's an uncomfortable position to hold in a community where most of the women compete to mate the strongest male, the best hunter, the most virile, so I keep to myself."

Realization flowed over Hermione, like a slowly unfurling flower. "That's why they look up to Isbeil," she murmured, thinking about the scary, dislikeable, nearly violently sexual woman whom everyone seemed to respect. "Because she won the lottery in mating Simidh."

"Lottery?" Lavender queried, then shook her head. "Doesn't matter. You're wrong, anyway. Well, partly. The unmated do, yes, but everyone,  _everyone_ looks up to her because of who she is. Strong, powerful - she's a witch too, you know - and an Alpha at heart. She and Simidh are a True Mating. Equal in every way.  _That's_ why people adore her."

Hermione sensed the sour note and followed it to its source. "Not you?"

"Not me." There was a palpable warning there, ending that line of questioning. "But, yes, anyway - that's why Scarlett does so well. The men have 'urges', and they can't always wait for one of the females to become receptive, or the full moon to work them off. Scarlett claims it takes the edge off of their more primal urges to have a place of ready relief, keeps the town calm, but Isbeil tells us it makes the males more likely to simply  _take_  what they want rather than asking nicely. I don't really have an opinion, but…" Lavender smiled, taking Hermione's arm and pulling her along as they descended into the village. "I have to say, there are a lot fewer fights than there used to be."

"So she  _does_ run a brothel?"

"I didn't tell you that," Lavender said slyly. "I kind of like her, so don't get me in trouble, please."

"Of course not," Hermione smiled. "Any tips on how to deal with her, then?"

Lavender gave her a narrow look as they reached the village. "Don't be so stuffy. She'll hate that. And drop the 'little girl lost' look, too; all it does is make us want to eat you. That's not who you are, so just leave it." She gestured over her shoulder. "Anyway, I live that way, so I'll be off. See you at breakfast?"

She skipped off without waiting for a reply, which was good, because Hermione was still stuck on the 'little girl lost' comment.

"Bitch," she muttered, glaring off in Lavender's direction. And to think that girl had been growing on her.


	10. Chapter Ten

The pub's lights were all on, lighting the place from the street so that it couldn't be missed. The earthy scent of beer preceded it, the sounds of laughter and male posturing spilling into the street. Hermione couldn't help feeling daunted by it, it had been so long since she'd had a night out. Harry wasn't the party type since Ginny had given birth to their little parasite, and every night she'd been free of work - rare, but it did happen occasionally - everybody had plans. Ron offered, every now and again, but these occasions fell into one of two categories; when he fancied sex, and/or, when he thought he and Harry were drifting apart and he needed her help to bring them back together. Being used was something Hermione had grown out of needing sometime during the war, so she didn't bother to accept.

Taking a deep breath, she pushed at the door. A roiling, almost physical wall of heat hit her, so permeated by alcohol fumes that Hermione felt tipsy just breathing it in. Raucous shouting met her entry as the men populating the bar cried a welcome, and she gave a timid wave back. This was  _not_ the sort of place she'd usually patronise; there was no menu above the bar, no college students bustling about writing notes between orders, and certainly no mild-mannered publican smiling at her in welcome. It was rather a place where one went with one goal: to get drunk.

The other patrons were doing a good job of that, too.

"Oi-oi!" someone shouted, and Hermione's head whipped around to see Madame Scarlett standing on the bar, holding three pints in some complicated manoeuvre that Hermione would have liked to study the physics of. "You again, is it? Well, come on, in the back." This caused a groan to rumble through the crowd, even as the woman hopped lithely down, distributing the drinks as she went. She locked eyes with Hermione and jerked her head towards the back, slapping away a man's groping hand without even a glance back. "Nik, take over!"

Hermione shoved her way through to the back while a tall, dark-haired man with distinctly slavic features took up post at the bar. The crowd registered a moment of disappointment at the loss of their voluptuous landlady, before surging forward once more in their pursuit of alcohol. Agata waited for her just beyond the door she'd exited through earlier that day, candle in hand. "Watch where you step," she warned, somewhat ridiculously, as she was holding the only source of light in the narrow corridor. "The stairs are steep." She opened a second door and stepped through.

Indeed, they were, and Hermione found herself clutching the rough-hewn banister for dear life as she tripped down the stairs. They were, it seemed, dug out of the dirt and reinforced with planks of wood. It was by far the most primitive thing she'd seen since she arrived. Hermione, then remembering all of the single-storey huts she'd passed on her way through the village, wondered if all of the houses had them, or just Agata's?

"My pride and joy," Agata proclaimed as they reached the cellar, pulling on a cord attached in some way to the ceiling. Light flickered on; real, electrical lights from fittings on the ceiling, which appeared better reinforced from beneath than they had above. She must have caught the question on Hermione's face, for she smiled fondly, her sharp features softening at some thought. "The Alpha had it installed," she explained. "The electric. Said torches were too dangerous down here, did not want to risk me 'blowin' us all to feckin' Judgement Day'." She stroked the wall, still smiling. "Sweet man."

"Blowing-" Hermione didn't finish the question, because as she turned fully into the room the answer became obvious.

Massive, gleaming vats cluttered the space, each designed slightly differently. The smell of barley was even more obnoxious here, and Hermione traced it to a station against one wall, where barrels were lined up to be filled. She approached one, eyeing the amber liquid within. "You're making beer," she said, obviously.

"Like my father, and his father before him," Agata moved up next to her, voice full of pride. "It takes a long time, especially with only myself to work, but the result is good. Better, if I could hire."

Despite her brain positing many questions, most concerning the dubious legality of the enterprise and the many health and safety breaches of it, too, she deferred to her common sense and instead asked, "Why aren't you allowed to hire?"

Agata slumped slightly, her shoulders sloping. "Alpha believes my output is sufficient as is."

"Well, yes; to service the Pack, it is. But you could sell it outside, too."

"Outside?" Agata's eyes blew wide with panic. "Oh - no, no. My little brewery is just fine. I would only like a boy for the grinding. It is hard on the arms. You have questions, Miss Auror?"

It took a lot of effort to back away from the point, but Hermione did, turning back to the reason she was here. "I need some information on the Pack, and everyone tells me you are the best source for it."

"I'm not a gossip," Agata said, eyes narrow.

"I'm not saying you are," she replied patiently. "I simply need some background, and you know everyone."

Agata glared at her for a moment, then settled. "Fine. Who first?"

* * *

Twenty minutes later, Hermione had caved and was sipping a frothy beer while settled against the wall, while Agata sat cross legged in front of her, ticking people off on her fingers. "-Niklaus, upstairs, is a whore but he is charming, too. Never knew Matthew well. Thought he was a pig."

She stretched out an arm and took a sip of her own beer. "That's the - what is the word? - periphery players. You want to know about the ones you've met, too, yes?"

Hermione released a relieved breath, glad that she hadn't had to be the one who brought it up. It seemed wrong to pry for information about people you knew, but she was an Auror and that was her job. Still, she always preferred it when others made the job easier. "Please. I've been here a day or so now and, barring a few clues, I feel like I know nothing. There aren't any suspects, or, rather, there are too many. Everyone seems lovely, but even serial killers can be lovely."

"You do not need to tell me this," Agata smirked, the expression rueful. "My sire - he was a nice man, not so nice on a full moon. And Alpha - he, too, is good. A good man, I think. He does bad things, but he is so…  _powabny_. Charming." She took another drink, wiping at her lip in a distinctly unfeminine way that endeared Hermione to her immeasurably. "But you know that, of course. You have met him, during that unfortunate time your country had with that Dark Lord."

Hermione nodded, feeling the alcohol take hold in her bloodstream. "But you have Simidh, now. He seems nice."

Agata gave her an odd look and snorted. "Yes,  _nice._ That man is a pain in my arse and no two ways about it. Just because the Lady Isbeil has it out for me, the bitch, he never lets me be."

Hermione finished the dregs of her drink only for Agata to crawl over to a barrel and refill it, her technique excellent, leaving it foamy at the top. "No-one seems to like her much."

"For good reason." Agata pressed the cup back into her hand. "That bitch doesn't care about anyone but herself. You must know, a true Alpha female's first priority is her Pack, more than her mate, more than herself. The Alpha male, he be in charge of the pack, but the woman, she runs it. She knows everyone, more than that, she understands everyone. Their needs are her needs, and so on. Isbeil's needs are her own, and sometimes Simidh's. She would be a terrible Alpha. A good Beta, if only she would discover loyalty, but without doubt, a terrible Alpha."

Hermione filed away this new insight, comparing it to what she knew of Isbeil, finding that the older woman came up lacking. She wouldn't say that, though. It wasn't her place. Instead, she steered the conversation back around. "Tell me about Mary," she asked, sipping her drink.

"Which one? The Little Red? Or Marie Silk? Such odd creatures, both of them. Little Red is completely absorbed by the children, she hardly spends time anywhere else. They love her, of course. Everyone loves little Mary. You will not have much luck connecting her to Matthew - she is not, shall we say, a fan of the men.

"Mairie is similar. She likes her plants, and her friends, and on the surface, not very much else. However…" Agata smirked, leaning in in a conspiratorial manner. "I am lucky, I see the darkness underneath. And, with Mairie… Say, for instance, she has, shall we say,  _needs._ Specific ones. And perhaps she fulfils them here. Where Matthew, perhaps, visited. "

She must have caught the interest in Hermione's expression for, with a wink, Agata pulled her fingers across her lips, as if zipping them. "I take my commitment to secrecy seriously, of course. As I say, I am no gossip. The only reason I mention this - entirely hypothetical - possibility is because you are my new friend, and also  _policja._ It is always good to have  _policja_ on side."

"Not because a man is dead?" Hermione asked wryly.

Agata tutted. "Eh! Men are always dying. You go to dinner with a man, turn around for a moment, look back, and he is dead." Hermione choked on her beer, but Agata continued. "Now, a valued customer died -  _that_ is the real pity."

Hermione was spluttering, attempting to force the beer she'd breathed in out of her lungs. Agata eyed her curiously. "I can't say I've ever had that experience," Hermione coughed, wiping at her streaming eyes. "A man dying in the middle of dinner, that is."

"Ah," Agata harumphed, downing the last of her drink. Then, just as Hermione was finishing hers, she mused, "Perhaps I was simply boring him."

Coughing, Hermione had to force her words through a burning throat. "You are a horrible person, Madame Scarlett," she accused with a hiccuping laugh.

"Oh, darling. You do not know the half of it."

A shout from upstairs interrupted Hermione's reply, and the following stampede had her jumping to her feet. It seemed she'd had more beer than she'd thought, for immediately she fell against the wall, the room spinning around her. "What was that?" she asked, frowning, looking toward Agata. The other woman raised her head, seeming to sniff the air, then blanched

"Fire," The other woman rasped. " _Fire!"_

The smell hit Hermione then, of smoke and wood burning. It was disorienting, for it didn't smell like danger; rather it smelled of late nights in the Gryffindor common room, snuggled up on the rug with Harry and Ron with hot chocolate and a book. Only the sheer strength of the stench threw her into action, pulling Agata up from where she sat stunned on the floor and dragging her toward the stairs. Above, she spotted thick grey smoke beginning to curl beneath the door in searching tendrils, lacing their way up toward the ceiling. Agata stalled, turning back. "My brew!"

"You can brew again!" Hermione scolded her, leaping up the stairs as Agata rushed to lift a casket of beer. "Put it down!"

"Like  _Hell_ ," the woman growled, and Hermione turned away, deciding she was probably safer down there, anyway.

" _Aguamenti!"_ Hermione shouted, pulling her wand and shoving it beneath the crack. Nothing happened. " _Aguamenti!"_ She repeated, louder, with more power. This time, the crackle of magic snapped the air around her, and the lights flickered out, but she could still hear the fire burning, destroying, outside.

She stopped in her tracks, prodigious mind working. "They must have started the fire right outside the door," she muttered, not even noticing how she'd automatically assumed foul play. What else could it be, after all? Besides, that was the only way for the timeframe to make sense - the customers had fled mere seconds ago. Searching around, she spotted no other exit, but took note of the tap in one corner.

She shed her jumper, rushing to the tap. She ran the water until the material was sodden, then used a quick severing charm to rip it in half. One half, she shoved over Agata's mouth. "Keep it there," she ordered, pulling her back toward the door. Agata stumbled, apparently more drunk than shed looked. The cold water seemed to have the added effect of sobering her up, somewhat, and she blinked at Hermione in question.

" _Bombarda!"_ she yelled in reply, throwing the jinx at the door with all of the energy she could summon. For a moment, the door rattled, then a purple flash lit up the room and Hermione and Agata were knocked flying by the rebound, Hermione crashing into a huge metal urn that burst upon impact and flooded her with bitter, thick slime, while Agata smashed into a wall and dropped to the floor, unconscious.

Hermione herself was dizzy, something cold trickling down her skull, while her legs and arms were burned by whatever she'd released. She stretched her legs to stand, only to howl in pain as something ground in her thigh, scraping bone and cutting into sinew. It was with some relief that Hermione noted her femoral was intact, but that would not save her from a slow bleed out, nor an infection.

She levered herself up onto her elbows to look down, blinking the stars from her eyes as she did so. Yep; a chunk of metal had embedded itself into her leg from where the  _bombarda_ had exploded the vat. It would come out with a yank, she supposed, though she didn't much fancy trying it. In fact, she didn't much fancy anything except lying down and taking a nap.

 _No,_ her brain warned her.  _Danger._ Her lungs stuttered in a breath of warm, tainted air. The room was a grey haze, she couldn't even see Agata anymore, which suggested she might have lost some time in the fall. That woke her up.

"Agata?" she called, her voice weak. There was an answering mumble, barely audible over the creaking from above as the fire ate away at the bar. Hermione thought that the only thing saving them was the underground nature of the brewery, and even that wouldn't hold for long. "Don't worry," Hermione called, "I'll get us out of here."

Easier said than done, it seemed. The door had obviously been warded against them and there was no guarantee they would yet have fallen. Her wand was trapped somewhere in the debris beneath her, and even as she flexed her hand in the standard wandless summoning charm, she knew it was hopeless. She couldn't reach her leg, and moving it was too painful - she was truly and completely stuck.

Hermione wasn't going to let Agata know that, however. The woman, strange as she was, was still a civilian, and it was Hermione's duty to protect her. As such, Hermione kept up a constant litany of soothing words for her benefit, while her fingers scrabbled in the dust for her wand.

The thudding from upstairs didn't capture their attention at first. It could have just been the fire spreading. No need to raise false hope. But then it became rhythmic, almost like, like…

_Footsteps!_

"We're down here!" Hermione shouted, proud that there was no hysteria in her voice. She was a trained Auror, after all. Aurors didn't get hysterical.

An answering growl came, but she wasn't sure if that was the fire or not. Still, the footsteps pounded overhead, and that gave her the will to carry on. Ignoring a wrenching pain in her side, she threw herself forward, shoving the metal in her leg aside with a scream of pain.  _God_ s, but it was painful, as if someone had taken a hold of her tendons and  _torn,_ but she had suffered worse in her time, and persevered.

Metal thrown aside, she pulled the other half of her sweater from the rubble. It stank, was coated in awful sludge, and slid beneath her fingers as she wrapped it around her leg and tied it as tight as she could. Makeshift tourniquet in place, Hermione levered herself to her feet.

"Agata?" she called, feeling her way through the smoke. Deep breaths were difficult, the toxic air making her dizzy, so she took shallow gasps instead, expelling more air than she took in. A moan drew her to the side, and she fumbled until she felt a shoulder, half-way up the wall. "Come on, girl."

With effort, she hooked her arm around the other woman's chest and pulled her up, staggering under the weight. Short puffs of air against her ear told her the woman was alive, the breaths stifled by the cloth covering her nose and mouth, but there, and strong. Hermione planned on keeping it that way.

Someone was pounding at the door, a human roar echoing in the stifling room from behind it. That was fine. It didn't occur to Hermione that it might come from the person who'd locked them in here in the first place - that wouldn't be logical. No, this was a saviour, and she was glad of it as she stumbled across to the stairs.

"Granger!" a familiar voice shouted, but she didn't have chance to reply - she'd lost more time, it seemed, for now she was crumpled against a wall, and Agata was being pulled away from her.

"Get… Her… Out…" she rasped, shoving the woman into their arms. " _Now."_

"'M not fecking leavin' you," the voice grunted, but the weight was lifted from her, and she expected the man to leave, but his shadow remained. She could just make out his silhouette as he turned and seemed to pass the woman to another shadow. "Get 'er out, damn troublemakin' bitch.  _Don't you die on me,"_ he shouted suddenly, and Hermione realised she'd been drifting again.

She scoffed, trying to lift her arms but finding herself unable to. "I'm not  _dying_ ," she sniffed, the swotty tone of her own voice familiar and comforting, even if she was unsure of the truth in her words.

"Feckin' right," the voice came back, sounding almost… Proud?

She didn't have time to linger on the mystery of this, for she was hefted into his arms and pressed against a broad chest that stank of smoke, ashes, burning - but also, strangely, of blood, and rain, and the forest. Still, his grip was inordinately comforting, if not exactly  _comfortable_  as he leaped up the stairs and through the pub, dodging smouldering obstacles with ease. Before she knew it, Hermione was taking her first deep breath of clean air for what felt like hours, and she could see stars twinkling overhead. The man carrying her was barking orders, and the fire was hissing and spitting its outrage as villagers tossed water over it.

"Agata," she said, searching for more words, but he seemed to get her gist and the man turned until she could see the other woman sat on the ground a few feet away, Simidh and Angus bent over her in concern. The ragged jumper hung around her neck like an ill-thought-out scarf, but she was awake and talking, looking stubborn as all hell. Satisfied that she was fine, Hermione closed her eyes and snuggled back into her saviour's chest, planning on falling asleep.

Wait.

If Simidh was  _there_ … And Angus was  _there…_ And noone else she'd met was this big…

She stiffened and turned her head up to see his face, and the man above her sighed.

"Was wondering when you'd get there, little one," Fenrir Greyback grinned.


	11. Chapter Eleven

"Get the fuck off of me!"

His little mate flipped out. There was no other way to describe what happened. Suddenly she was kicking and scratching with a strength he'd thought - okay, maybe hoped - she wouldn't be capable of for at least a few hours yet. Some of his pack turned, watching the scene curiously, and he glowered at them.

"Stop struggling, damnit! You'll hurt yourself!"

"And deprive you of the satisfaction?!" She growled, a little hysterically. He frowned down at her, but that didn't stop her. If anything, she only struggled more, before turning her head and digging her sharp little teeth into his bicep.

Well. That was something.

Fen released her out of reflex, surprised at the speed with which his cock jumped to attention. Hermione tumbled to the floor, landing on her pert little arse and scrambling backward across the grass, all the while scowling fiercely in his direction. Gods, but she was adorable. All tiny and soft, but with the soul of a warrior. He didn't think he'd ever get tired of her, not really.

"You're dead!" She cried, pointing a finger accusingly in his direction, as if he'd lived simply to taunt her.

"News to me," he grinned, spreading his hands wide. "I certainly don't feel dead." Nope, not with his prick so very, very hard. He felt more alive than he had in years. The way her bottom lip poked out, plush and delicious, the way her hips swayed enticingly as she climbed to her feet. She seemed to want to meet him on even footing, but that just wasn't going to happen, not with him standing six-foot something next to her tiny doll figure.

So  _small._ So  _breakable._ When he'd heard that she was stuck in that bar… Burning… The potential of her, of them, snuffed out? He'd torn the place apart to get to her, ripped his way through the damn wards with his bare hands.

That, more than anything, confirmed what he'd already knew. No flimsy wards could keep a wolf from his Mate.

On that thought, another growl rumbled through his chest, and he took a step forward, only to be matched by her taking a step back. His  _Mate_.

She bared her teeth and his balls tightened automatically, his wolf praising her the best way he knew how. He loved a strong woman.

It especially pleased him that if the Ministry had to interfere in Pack issues, it would be her to do so. Traditionally, it would be the female Alpha's job to mediate disputes where a fight wouldn't settle matters, but he'd not had one of those for a while now. But now… Now there was the Granger girl, and he'd have her if he could.

"Back off!" she screamed, scrabbling for something at her belt. Her wand. She must have lost it in the fire. She wasn't deterred, however, throwing her fists in front of her in a boxing stance, which triggered a mass sucking of air from the crowd. "I'll fight you!" She cried.

"You don' wanna fight me, little one," Fen chuckled, keeping his hands at his sides. He did turn his palms outward, though, in a gesture of peace. He didn't fancy riling her even more.

"I  _will,"_  she warned, but the lack of confrontation seemed to flummox her, and her arms trembled. Fenrir eyed them with concern.

"You need healing," he pointed out with a frown. "Yer weak.  _Carla!"_

The roar echoed, stunning Granger, and within seconds their pack healer was pushing her way through the crowds, Doc Elinor on her heels. "Yes, Alpha?" she asked, shooting a concerned glance at the girl. Doc Elinor, beside her, sneered and crossed her arms.

"See to Granger, would'ya? Can't afford to have 'er die on us." He scowled at Doc Elinor. "An' what're you doing here?"

"I'm a doctor, too," she snapped, then seemed to recognise who she was talking to, for she fixed a subservient 'Alpha' into the end.

"Aye, two doctors in one Pack, and aren't we blessed," he snorted. "I didn't call fer  _you_."

Doc Elinor huffed indignantly. "Alpha, I am perfectly capable of assisting."

"Then why don't ye go assist Agata? Bet she's tired of Simidh and Angus' clumsy paws, ain't that right, love?"

This was tossed over his shoulder to where he could feel Agata straining to check on Granger. He didn't look away from Doc Elinor. She was the sort of bitch that if given an inch, she'd take a mile. And he wasn't giving no miles when it came to his Mate.

"Very kind of you, Alpha," Agata sang, her dulcet tones unmarred by the fire. "I do have a tickle in my throat, Dr. Wallace; perhaps you could take a look?"

Doc Elinor glared at Agata, her face twisted in disgust, but bowed her head to him and went to her anyway, so Fenrir turned his attention back to Granger. She, unlike Doc Elinor, had no qualms against glaring at him; her eyes shot such fire he could almost feel their touch on his skin, making him shudder. "She alright, Carla?" he called, without moving any closer. He didn't have a death wish, cute as the lass was when angry.

"I am  _fine,"_  Granger growled, even as she submitted to Carla's poking and prodding.

"She does appear so," Carla backed her up, though there was a touch of doubt in her tone as she ran her fingers through the younger woman's hair, her fingers emerging touched by streaks of blood. "You'll need to heal these cuts, get an unguent against infection. The good news is that you don't seem to have a concussion; the bad news, you've probably fractured your ankle, if not worse. I recommend getting yourself checked up at Mungo's." At Fen's warning growl, Carla tossed her hair to pin him with a no-nonsense look. "We don't have the resources to heal you here. Elinor and I are Muggles, and even Mary-Rose, who's our most advanced with healing charms, isn't nearly qualified enough to  _touch_ you. We could wrap it, but…"

"Give me a wand," Granger snapped, hand palm-out. "I'll do it."

"Oh, no you will not!" Fenrir took a step forward, alarmed, only to stop when she tensed, the motion making her hiss in pain.

"You're in too much pain for that," Carla told her soothingly, chastising him with her eyes.

"Then bring me your most powerful witch; I'll teach them the spell. Ah-" She held her hand up to forestall Carla's protest. "If I go to Mungo's, the Aurory will find out. If they find out, I'll be removed from the case and you'll get someone else. Someone with no experience with werewolves, likely someone with no sympathy for you. Not only that, but as I've been injured in your territory, a team will come in and tear the place apart, searching for any evidence of criminal activity and arresting you at will. That is not, I'm sure, something your Alpha will want."

Fenrir winced, knowing that was true. But she was  _hurt_. Conflict raged within him for a moment, before a smile spread across his face. Several people in the vicinity flinched.

"Are your people still here?" he asked, crooking a finger to Simidh, who'd been hovering on the sidelines since leaving Agata in Doc Elinor's care, his arms around a stoic Isbeil, who had been quiet, for once in her life. Fen spared a moment to watch her narrowly. That woman acting out of character was always a cause for concern. And when did she get here, anyway?

Granger's eyes flared wide. "I - I'm not sure. I'd forgotten…"

"Auror Lupin and her team left a few hours ago," Simidh said, smiling slightly at Granger. The fact that she smiled back made Fenrir want to break his nose, but this wasn't the time or place. "Miss Lovegood left a note, I was coming to give it to you when I saw the blaze."

He produced an envelope, which Fenrir snatched from his hands before he could give it to Granger. She scowled fiercely, but he was too quick in opening it for her to complain, not that it stopped her indignant "Oi!".

_Hello Hermione!_

_Such a fun day trip, thank you! I've got some things to show you in the morning, so I'll be around at eight. Please let the gatekeeper know, he was quite spooked when we turned up this morning._

_I hope the investigation is going well. Wolves are fascinating creatures, aren't they? And such fun to play with. Don't stress about the Ministry - I have a feeling this is exactly where you need to be._

_See you soon,_

_Luna._

_P.S. I know you told me not to experiment so much, but I have a feeling this will be needed. Take it, just in case._

Fenrir tipped the envelope upside down and out slithered a thin elastic bandage that sparkled slightly in the glow of the smoldering bar. On one side, in a wonky cursive, the word ' _integrus'_ had been written. He barked a laugh, unable to stop himself, then tossed it, along with the letter across to Granger.

The smile that lit her face was affectionate as she read it. "How does she know?" She shook her head wryly. Awkwardly, leaning on Carla for support, she reached forward to loop the material around her leg. It was a slow job, working with one hand as she was, but she made a noise of disent when Carla went to help. "I can do it," she insisted, grimacing as she stretched her side. It was painful to watch.

Without conscious thought, Fenrir found himself kneeling at her feet, taking the bandage from her hands with authority. Shocked, it took her a moment to gather herself, but Fen was ready to parry her argument with his customary eloquence.

"Shut up," he commanded gruffly, nodding at Carla, who casually reached out and tucked Granger's hand into hers. With quick motions, he pulled the bandage away and rewrapped it,  _correctly_ this time. If he was going to do something, he'd do it right.

Rocking back on his heels, he splayed a hand towards the affected ankle in a 'after you' motion.

Granger didn't take her suspicious eyes from his face as she said the spell, which meant that he had the pleasure of a good view when she gasped, an orgasmic sort of pleasurable relief rolling over her. The amber of her eyes deepened, blurred, while her body shuddered, ankle skin heating visibly. Her sweet, pink mouth dropped open to show pearly white teeth touched by a delicate, glistening tongue.

" _Merlin_ ," she grunted when it was over, and Fenrir's cock couldn't help but concur.

* * *

"Go away, I have things to do."

"I'll join you."

Hermione didn't want to admit how much the implacable tone of his voice affected her, but the shiver in her body betrayed that wish. It was so low, so gravelly…  _And the voice of a murderer!_

Unfortunately, her conscience had nothing on her libido when it came to matters of sexy werewolves.

It was probably the shock, she reassured herself. Being in a fire, breaking one's leg and slicing up one's skin could have a queer effect on the body, making one more susceptible to advances that, when one had a full grasp of their sanity, would be considered repellent. It was an inconvenience that she could have done without, but one was forced to make do with what they had, and this was a make-do occasion.

She desperately needed to investigate this crime. It was a massive job for one person alone, but what other choice did she have? It was true that if the Ministry found out about this, they would take away the case - if only to protect their precious Hermione Granger, second-most photogenic Auror, judiciary golden goose. Well, they'd have to rip it from her cold, dead claws, and if the threat of that meant she had to do the jobs of several dozen Aurors all by lonesome, then she damn well would.

"I can help you," the irritating tick was saying now, reaching over her head to bat away midgies.

"I don't need your help," she snapped, refusing to give the man the satisfaction of looking at him. She didn't have time to be distracted, she needed to come up with an action plan. "If you haven't noticed, I'm doing  _just fine_  on my own!"

A broken off snigger had her hackles shooting up. "You think you could'a gotten this far on yer own, little one? Yer cuter than I thought."

A growl burst from her throat without her permission, and she whipped around to face him. "What the Hell are you talking about?"

He looked so bloody smug, her hand itched to slap him. "Why'd ye think everyone's bein' so nice an' accomodatin'? It's not because they love the feckin' Ministry, now, is it?"

Against her express orders, her mouth dropped open, the sheer  _gall_ of the man stunning her. She was about to give him a piece of her mind - well earned, she must say - when the implications of what he'd said struck.

"You  _ordered_ them to be nice to me," she said dully.

He cocked his head, wolf-yellow eyes examining her curiously. The canine gesture was only enhanced by the flavour of his confusion: a loyal dog who cannot understand why his human is acting like she is. She had seen that exact expression on Tobey, the cockapoodle her aunt used to bring around on weekends when she was a child, when her aunt had cried at her grandfather's funeral. There was a touch of desperation to it, a  _how do I make it stop!_

"Don't you look at me like that," she snapped, even more annoyed now, for the adorability of the expression unnerved her.

"Why're you upset at me  _now_?" he demanded, exasperated. "I was only helpin'."

"Yes, I'm sure for you, that was  _helping."_ She spit the words out in a staccato beat, sarcasm highly evident. And maybe she was a little shrill. Maybe. "For me, that merely muddies the waters! How am I meant to know who is genuine and who is not, now? Their true characters are obscured by your machinations!"

"Machinations?" He tasted the word, rolling it about his mouth as if he'd never heard it before. Even through her anger, Hermione could feel the pleasure-filled sigh of her uterus. "Lass, I only told 'em to be pleasant. Didn't tell 'em to lie." His eyes lit on her face and comprehension seemed to dawn. "Oh, aye, I get it. You  _liked_ 'em, and now yer feelin' betrayed."

" _No,_ " Hermione spat, ignoring the flush in her cheeks and the deflation in her chest that all belied her denial.

"Yes!" For some unfathomable reason, Greyback grinned, his eyes lighting up as if someone had brought him the moon on a string. "Aye, but that's-that's sweet of ye, lass. And they like you, too. Simidh can't stop praisin' ye, despite how you don't seem to have gotten nothin' done 'cept nearly killin' my Agata."

" _I did not-!"_ she cut herself off, clamping her lips together before biting down on them, for good measure.  _Breathe, Hermione._ "Look, Greyback. I have things to do. I can't stand here arguing with you all night."

"At least yer arguin' and not attackin'," Greyback grumbled, apparently assuming she couldn't hear him.  _Prick._ "Look, I got some of me lads to check out the bar and Mary-Rose is try'na figure out where everyone was. I'm no Auror, o'course, but reckoned it would be useful."

"For the last time, Greyback," Hermione seethed, seeing red at the very idea that this man thought she was so incompetent that a few amateur were-sleuths could sub in for her, " _I do not need your help!"_

This last screech echoed through the night, drawing eyes across to them. Hermione sucked in a breath, then another, in a futile attempt to keep a grip on herself. The sky was spinning, the stars blurring into each other, and there appeared to be three Greybacks stood before her. She gave a wobbly scowl.

"Well, if yer gonna object so much, you might as well know. Not doin' it fer you, love," Greyback said pleasantly. "Doin' it 'cause I'm the Alpha, and it's my job. I'd be doing it, anyway. This fire is not your-" he scratched his ear absently as he searched for the word. "Jurisdiction, aye, that's it."

Panting through the dizziness, Hermione attempted a glare, but she thought that it might not have come off very well when Greyback suddenly looked concerned. "If that's true," she burbled, finding herself having to force her mouth to sound out the words. Her limbs were curiously heavy, but she recognised fatigue when she felt it - as usual, she'd just power through. Some coffee would be nice, though. What had she been saying? Ah, yes. "If that's true," she repeated, "then why'd you follow me? You should be-should be-"

Her legs gave out, toppling to the ground, where she found the grass curiously soft and cozy. Something settled atop her, rough-hewn but soft, and she snuggled into the blanket. Really, it felt exactly like her bed. So much like her bed, that she couldn't resist sliding her eyes shut, just got a moment. A few seconds, at the most. Boy, but she really was tired…


	12. Chapter Twelve

* * *

"That's why," Fen grumbled quietly as he tucked the girl into the blanket. She mewled faintly, but she'd been asleep the moment she hit the ground, so he didn't worry. The poor lass had been dead on her feet and didn't even notice it.

Fen had noticed. She'd been grey, deathly pale in the square, but the moment she'd gotten up and moving it seemed to have gotten worse. He marveled at her ability to work through the exhaustion even as he scolded her under his breath for her lack of care toward herself. How often did she work herself to the brink of death for her to be so used to it? Well, not any longer - not if he had anything to say about it.

Fen scooped her up into his arms, grousing happily at how familiar her weight was becoming as he set off for the castle. Perhaps he'd let her burn herself out sometimes, if it meant he could care for her-yell at her, too, but he did like to look after his women. Peg claimed it was some deep-seated psychological instinct stemming from when he had been a little boy providing for his invalid mother and that he played it out by choosing the lost and abandoned for his Pack; Fen had always thought it was because wolves liked the hunt rather than the quick kill - what use was injured prey, after all?

He was rather less cerebral than his nan.

Fen didn't just like her when she was vulnerable and defenseless, however: no; conscious, she was a fierce warrior, stalwart defender of the weak and downtrodden, with a brain (and a bottom) that drew him in like a moth to a flame.

Granger was a delicious, full package of delights that he looked forward to unwrapping.

Eventually.

When she'd let him.

Peg awaited him at the entrance to the castle, her arms folded across her chest as she watched the flames die out down in the village. Supporting her with one arm twined through the old lady's elbow was a pinched looking Lavender Brown, whose eyes were fixed on Granger, all wrapped up in Fenrir's arms.

"She kicks in her sleep, you know," the blonde informed him, reaching out with her spare hand to brush a strand of hair from Hermione's face. She shot him a coy smile. "And she talks, too. Weirdly, her dreams can get all kinds of smutty after traumatic events. I think it's her brain's way of relaxing her. A month after the Department of Mysteries fiasco, all I could hear at night was ' _please_ , Nikolaos -  _yes, there! Light my fire!'_."

Lavender gave a nostalgic sort of smirk. Fenrir was not as amused. "Who is Nikolaos?"

This time it was Peg who responded, finally turning her eyes to Granger with an impish smile. "Nikolaos Barlos. He's the hero of  _Desiring Dauntless_ , a delicious book about a pirate and an innocent, 'cept in  _this_  one-"

Fen quickly lost interest when it turned out he wouldn't need to kill Nikolaos. "Someone help me get 'er to 'er room?"

"We'll both go," Peg said, blinking rapidly as if the view of the village burning had imprinted itself on her eyelids. "Nuthin' to do here, anyhow, and this impertinent chit," she gave Lavender a fond smile, patting her arm perhaps a bit harder than was warranted, making the girl grimace, "won' let me go down and 'elp."

Fen nodded at his packmember approvingly. "Well she shouldn't, Nan. The smoke would kill ye."

"I'm a bit hardier than some  _smoke_ , lad," Peg scoffed. "And you know well and good that I ain't leavin' 'til I have my grandpups."

"How would I know that when ye never talk about it?" Fen grumbled under his breath, but the  _look_ she speared him with said that she heard.

"Lavender, dear, remind me that the second he puts that lovely lassie down, I owe him a spankin'. You ain't too old for me to put you over my lap, boy."

"Nan, I'm nearin' fifty!"

"Aye, you'd think you'da learned some manners by now!" Peg retorted. "Now, is that poor wee thing going to get a bed anytime soon or are ye just going to lug her about all night like a sack o' potatoes? She ain't your new Teddy Bear, Fenrir."

He bared his teeth, thinking that maybe family was overrated; Peg gave a challenging snarl in return. It might have escalated, if he hadn't been kicked in the head.

Dumbstruck, he glared down at the peacefully sleeping woman in his lap, her legs swinging innocently over the crook of his arm. Peg and Lavender goggled for a minute, before breaking out into matching giggles.

"Fuck the both o' ye," Fenrir groused, adjusting his grip to ensure her legs were clamped by his forearm. She was probably uncomfortable, but he found it hard to empathise what with his ears still  _feckin' ringin'_. "Is someone gonna help me or shall I just drop 'er 'ere?"

"Gods, no," Lavender looked appalled. "I'm not carrying her, I just had my nails done."

"I'm twice your age," Peg pointed out, reasonably. "If you're having trouble, what do you think I'll do?"

Fenrir didn't even waste a growl on that one. Irritated, he huffed and turned on his heel, marching to the stairs. The sound of Lavender and Peg's feet pitter-pattering off the flagstone floor followed.

* * *

Hermione was relaxed, content, as she floated back to reality. Her dream had been a good one - Sven the Ridgeback had been soaping her up in the bath, rather thoroughly - but something in her mind was urgent, prodding her to consciousness.

The sound of running water came through first. Confused, she turned her head to ask Sven why he was adding more water, and instead got a mouthful of cotton -  _what?_ Blinking, she found herself staring at an expanse of white and grey.

Her bed, in the Castle.

And it all came back.

"Greyback!" She shouted, jumping from the bed into a battle-stance, arm outstretched in offensive-duelling position-four, before she even realised she didn't have her wand. The room was empty, at least, so she didn't look like a complete idiot.

Wait, no. Scratch that. The water cut off and a familiar blonde head of hair poked out of the bathroom. "Just me," Lavender said cheerfully, striding into the room, soaking wet and in the process of wrapping a towel about her chest. "He popped out to check on the Pack. He sent breakfast, though!" She lifted a cloche that had been placed on a nearby table and the smell of gamey meat filled the room. Hermione eyed the plate dubiously, staunchly ignoring how her mouth watered.

"What is it?"

"Cheese on toast with a side of rabbit." Spotting Hermione blanche, she giggled. "I know, but he thinks it's hilarious - Welsh Rarebit, get it?"

"Who eats rabbit for breakfast?" Hermione wondered aloud, wrinkling her nose at the very idea.

"Don't look so disgusted," Lavender tutted, frowning in her direction. "He killed it special and everything."

" _What?"_ Somehow that made it worse. And better, in a weird way. It did smell good, after all, and the idea that he'd gone and killed something for her…

Okay, no. Just weird.

And entirely horrifying. Sometime during her unconsciousness, her brain had come to terms with Fenrir's being alive, but that didn't change the fact that she  _loathed_ him and all he stood for, that he had contributed to one of the worst experiences of her life. Just a few years ago he'd been threatening to violently rape her in the forest, and now he was bringing her food?

_Horrifying._

"I'll pass," Hermione murmured, having suddenly lost her appetite. Lavender looked at her for a long moment, her eyes narrowed in thought, before shrugging, that she waterfall she called hair snapping back over her shoulders.

"Fine,  _I'll_ eat it, then, seeing as it's here. Since when did you get so picky?"

"Since  _Fenrir Greyback!_ I can't eat his food, Lavender - I don't trust him."

"More fool you," Lavender grunted through a mouthful of meat. Hermione was beginning to see why she and Ron had rubbed along so well. "Here, messages for you." She tossed a bundle of parchment onto the bed behind her. Flipping through, Hermione caught Tonks' handwriting informing her that they'd arrived to continue their search (' _-but after all these full moons the ground is saturated by so much blood it might as well be Elm Street over here, so unless there's physical evidence we're shit out of luck-')_ and Luna's cheery note informing her that the grounds were 'clear of cursplots this morning', which would facilitate her search. A message from Harry the first asked her to call, while Harry II seconded that request, adding a polite 'at your convenience'. Finally, she came to a sheet of paper covered in a spidery print Hermione didn't recognise, and it took her a few moments to decipher it. When she did, she dropped everything and started to yank on clean clothes, heedless of the dirt that still coated her from the night before. Luckily, Lavender was there to prevent her from sabotaging herself.

"Erm, no, bitch, I don't think so," she trilled, dropping her toast and hooking one finger into the neck of Hermione's shirt. "Bath first, then you can go and play with the body."

Muttering under her breath, Hermione reluctantly allowed herself to be not-so-gently chivvied into the bathroom where a bath lay waiting, frothing with pink and purple bubbles. Hermione's immediate reaction was to blanche and run far,  _far_ away from this Barbie-vomit monstrosity, but she tamped it down long enough to appreciate the effort that went into drawing it. Across the way, the shower floor was wet, evidence that the other woman hadn't even sampled the bath first, which for Lavender was a massive sacrifice.

Her thanks were lost under her own shrieks as Lavender tried to set herself to undressing her, which was a step too far over the 'friendship' line even for her, and she expended so much effort trying to get the handsy harpy out of her bathroom that the bath was the only option left to her. Sighing, she pulled her jumper the rest of the way off, dumping it onto the floor and stepping into the froth.

 _O, holy…_ delicious heat sank into her bones, warming her flesh and relaxing her muscles. She couldn't help the near-erotic moan she released on contact, glad that the bubbles hid her blush even from herself. It was a small tub, iron-cast and only big enough for someone of her size to fit comfortably, but it was bliss to her. So blissful, in fact, that she teetered on the edge of falling into slumber once more until she remembered the note and forced herself to wake up, forsaking the heat and general gorgeousness of the bath in order to briskly wash herself down.

Stepping out ten minutes later, she grabbed a towel from the single, metal-bar radiator bolted to the wall and scrubbed away the staining remnants of her bath, pulling on the relatively clean slacks she'd brought in with her out of necessity. Looking now, she realised that the brown of them clashed with the red of the jumper, but it would have to do. There was no way she was getting naked in front of Lavender again.

No worries there - both Lavender and the last of the rabbit was gone, the only sign of their passing a slight dusting of glitter on the floor and a few stray fake gemstones littering the desk. No joke. It was as if the tooth fairy had come to visit. Hermione frowned, running her fingers over the gems as something niggled at her brain, but the urgency of the missive came back with a vengeance and she pushed it away, instead changing her jumper before grabbing her bag and leaving.

* * *

"Finally awake, Sleeping Beauty?" Dr. Wallace's sardonic voice greeted her as she opened the door to the makeshift morgue. The doctor was over by the sink, thoroughly scrubbing her hands clean while Matthew Turner was laid out on the table once more, covered in a pristine white sheet; the drains in the floor beneath him still puddled with cloudy white liquid. Hermione caught something wrong with Wallace - something about the set of her shoulders, the tightness in her jaw. A flashback to last night reminded Hermione of how dismissive Greyback had been of her talents, her skill, and she softened towards the woman incrementally.

"It's so nice to hear someone reference a fairytale I actually know," Hermione commented breezily, dropping her bag in a chair and searching for her notebook. "It's all Babbity-Rabbity in the Wizarding World."

Dr. Wallace smirked faintly, as if she had something to add but was held back by her firm disdain of Hermione and everything she stood for. Ah, well. She'd tried.

Wallace snapped on some gloves, offering the box to Hermione before stepping over to the tray, laying a battered voice recorder down at the head of the body. "He's sufficiently dried out that I've been able to start the procedure; about six this morning, in fact." She cast Hermione a chastising look, and for once she actually felt a little guilt - it was nearly noon, and it felt like she'd slept the day away. "All of the preliminary notes you'll find over there -" She pointed at a thick, spiral-bound journal on one counter. "You're just in time for the surface examination."

Without further ado, Wallace whipped back the sheet. If possible, Turner looked worse now that the bloating had subsided, his skin hanging off him in folds. The gashes were stretched, providing a view into parts of his body noone should have to see, and his stomach was swollen grotesquely. The smell had amped up over the day or so he'd been laying here, wafted towards her by the movement of the sheet, and Hermione clamped her mouth shut. The smell was bad, but breathing through her mouth only made it worse, as if she could taste his flesh on her tongue.

Dr. Wallace began to read off an accounting of the wounds now that they were less waterlogged, noting changes in colour and texture as easily as one might describe the weather outside. Hermione followed along, examining the wounds along with her. There were cuts and bruises that she fought lividity to recognise, defensive wounds marring his arms, wrists and even the split skin on his fingers. The man had obviously put up a fight, but it was hard to tell which were earlier wounds and which were more recent. The difference was only a matter of hours, and both Wallace and Hermione had to examine them closely for the first stages of healing.

The worst, however, were the deep, vicious slashes that could have passed for claw-marks if neither doctor had known better, and Hermione wasn't certain she  _did_ ; from the war, she knew that Greyback was capable of manifesting his wolf form outside of a full moon, so it stood to reason that others could. The very idea, however, made her shudder - she wasn't sure if she could deal with a claw-welding murderer.

"Oddly small," Wallace murmured to herself, attracting Hermione's attention. When the younger woman looked at her, Wallace nodded to herself, as if making a decision. "See here," she indicated one of the less sagging wounds, high on his chest. She spread her hand over it, all of her fingers straight, until it was aligned with the gashes. Her long, slender fingers were just enough to reach the end of the slash, but the edges, where the flesh peeled back, were wider. When Hermione looked nonplussed, she clicked her tongue impatiently.

"When we transform, everything gets bigger - hands and feet the least of it. Have you ever seen a transformed werewolf, Granger?" Wallace looked up at her expectantly, her voice for once free of condescension, only curiosity.

"A few times," she answered vaguely. There had been more than a few - beginning with that harrowing experience with Professor Lupin when she'd been thirteen and ending her last night in the Pack she'd studied before joining the Aurors. That had been, oddly, the night the last of her fear of werewolves seeped away. Somehow, and she never remembered how, her wards had dropped in the middle of the night and she'd woken to find herself surrounded by feral half-beasts: the more committed wolves, the ones who had accepted who they were took on the full form; beautiful, giant canines almost as tall as she was with four paws on the ground, while the others, the holdouts, were stuck in the half-human, half-wolf form that was so common and terrifying, emblematic of their inner struggle. They'd stood about the bed, growling, snarling, and she'd been literally weeing herself with fear, until, all of a sudden - around the time they'd scared the piss out of her, actually - they'd sniffed her, licked her in a strangely submissive manner, and left.

She'd departed the next day, not out of fear of the wolves, but sheer confusion.

"Then you'll know what I'm talking about. Judging by the span, I'd expect whoever did this to be small…" Wallace cocked her head in the lupine way that was so common here, thinking. "About five-six, maybe shorter. Extrapolating further, considering the pool of suspects, I'd say a woman. Most of our men are…"

 _Huge,_ Hermione filled in in her mind, thinking of Greyback, Jon, Angus. Even the women, mostly - there was a mild pang of disappointment that Isbeil was counted out. Molly, too - she was tall and stocky, like Wallace herself. Odd, though; all of the women that fell into this range that she'd met had come across as harmless, at least, as harmless as any Pack werewolf possibly could be.

In the corner of the page, she noted down the names of all of the women she'd met that fit this description - Lavender, Mairie, Mary-Rose - only to realise that she didn't know enough of them. She really needed to get on top of her interviews, starting with the other school teacher, Mrs. Quinn. After Abigail, the need to discuss matters with the schoolteacher had only grown.

"Anything else?" she asked Wallace, who was now lining up her tools for the internal examination. The intellectual part of Hermione's mind wanted to stay, curious; most magical examinations skipped the gory bits, and she hadn't done the whole measure-weigh-biopsy thing since medical school, but the detective in her was hungry for information. Plus, she had to hunt down Greyback and get up to date on the fire situation - she could hardly walk freely into the schoolhouse if there was an arsonist after her. That was too risky, even for her.

"I'll let you know," Wallace murmured dismissively. It was clear that she was absorbed in the science once more. Hermione nodded and left.

* * *

"Butane, Alpha."

"Lighter fluid?"

Simidh nodded, Jon mimicking him from slightly behind. Fen had pulled the man from the guard post especially for this; for all of his general idiocy, the man had a nose for troublemakers. Same as Molly, who stood with her arms crossed beside Jon. He looked to her, as the more experienced in this sort of thing.

She gave a sort of side-tip of the head in acknowledgement. "We found traces of it on the floor on the way out; whoever it was wasn't very clean about it. They padded the floor with cardboard and covered the lot in lighter fluid, set it on fire."

Fenrir was growling before she finished. "Mairie?" Mairie used cardboard to transport her goods from the market; aside from the deliveries pack members got from farther afield, which were delivered to the local shops and then picked up by Mairie on her market runs, she was the only person who stored that amount of cardboard within Pack walls.

But Simidh was shaking his head vehemently, Jon once more following. "Mairie was at the stall all night, getting schmoozed. It's market day - you know what it's like."

"Plus, she keeps it all in that shed by the orchard - anyone could get in and out of there without being seen, if school was out, which we can assume, given how Quinnie hasn't come forward."

Fen tapped his nails against the table in frustration. "And none of 'em saw anythin', none o' the men in the pub?"

"We assume the cardboard was brought in earlier and then placed while Scarlett was downstairs," Molly explained.

"Feckin'- _-shite_." Fen scrubbed his hands through his hair. "A'right. Keep on it. I wanna hear anythin' ye find."

"Aye, Alpha," they chorused, then backed out of the room.


	13. Chapter Thirteen

"What've you got?"

Harold flinched, the voice unexpected. He didn't know how long he'd been down here - hours? Days? - but he hadn't seen anyone else in a while, and assumed it was night time. That worked for him; the Ministry archives were never exactly bustling, but even the slightest sound had been known to throw him off track.. Company, even that of a celebrated War Hero, was unwelcome.

Yet Harry Potter threw himself into a chair all the same, picking up one of his many sheets of parchment and squinting at the scribbled words. "Merlin, your handwriting is worse than Hermione's."

Harold dug his nails into the desk to stop himself from wrenching his work out of the other man's hands. He wasn't sure why he didn't like Potter - perhaps because the man was so close to Auror Granger in a way that Harold, as her mere go-to assistant, wasn't - but he always felt as though he was in competition with the man, and Potter reading his work felt like cheating. "It's not there to be readable," Harold sniffed in a supercilious way. "And it won't do  _you_  any good to read it, either. They're  _my_  notes."

Potter shot him an amused look, dropping the parchment onto a pile -  _the wrong pile._ "Alright, calm down. I'm only curious. Hermione will want a report soon, that's all."

"I  _know,"_  Harold snapped, slamming the tome he'd been reading - records of all new werewolf registrations between 1981 and 1991, complete with next of kin and address, and horribly dull - closed and pulling a new one toward him. "I've got nearly everything ready for her, I just need to figure out one small detail before I'm finished."

A big detail, really. Over five-feet of details, which seemed to be missing from all records since time began. It was frustrating beyond belief to research someone who was beginning to appear more and more like a ghost.

"Is this detail, by any chance,  _her?"_  Potter asked lightly, pointing to Auror Granger's original letter, which lay on the table at the centre of a storm of notes. He picked out a name with his nail, tracing its loops. "Because if it is, I'm stuck, too."

That information wasn't as gratifying as it should have been. Yes, Harold was pleased that Potter was no better than he was, and there was solid evidence to the fact -  _but_ , he was still failing Auror Granger, and that did not feel good at all. "You are?" Harold asked suspiciously. Was this a trap? He could never tell if Potter shared his animosity or was genuinely oblivious. All signs pointed to the latter, but he wasn't taking chances.

"Yes." He was pulling out his little black Auror book now, flipping through the pages. As he did so, Harold caught lines of neat, oval writing marching from bulleted end to end, a milimetre of blank white separating each point.  _Ugh_. Tidy thinkers were the worst, and he knew for a fact that Auror Granger agreed with him. Often he'd find her, mid-investigation, buried beneath endless sheets of scribbles that may or may not prove helpful, perfectly happy in the chaos. It took her three attempts to write her reports as she often had compelling ideas hallway through and defiled the fresh new paper by scratching them in the margins. She would never be a tidy thinker, just as he wouldn't, and that, he thought pettily, was one thing Harry couldn't top.

"I tried everything - even had Fleur contact her relations, just in case the name meant something over there - but nothing came up."

"I didn't think of that," Harold said aloud, accidentally. Surely he'd come to regret such a statement. "Perhaps she's not French?"

"The Veela colony covers the Alps," Potter told him, without a trace of anything but mild interest in his voice, but Harold felt chastised all the same. "She isn't European."

A beat of silence as Harold frowned at the pages before him. He wanted to say,  _then what is she?,_ but he'd shown enough weakness for the day. Instead, he sighed. "If only we had a picture."

Potter perked up as if Harold's words had been a stunning insight. " _Brilliant,_ Harry! Thanks!"

And he rushed off, before Harold even had a chance to finish his indignant "my name is  _not_  bloody Harry-!"

* * *

"You are  _not_ my Alpha."

Hermione heard the words as she passed the husk of the pub and sped up, just turning the corner as a far more familiar voice threatened, "I  _am_  the Alpha female and you will  _do as I say!"_

"Oh, please," came the first voice - a refined voice, with the same sort of posh Scots lilt as Carla had. "You might be first female, but you're a Beta, and always will be. You think there aren't dozens of you in this pack alone?"

There was a pause, and Hermione peeked around the edge of the building to look down the hill at a cottage built a few feet from the beginning of the orchard. It was smaller than the pub but bigger than the others, with flowers crawling up the sides and hanging over the side-door on a makeshift trellis. In front of the open door stood a woman Hermione only vaguely recognised and the angular, muscled form of Isbeil, sun glinting from her hair and the expanse of skin revealed in those leather straps she liked to pretend formed a real shirt. As Hermione watched, Isbeil leaned in, her voice carried up to Hermione on the wind.

"Not Alpha enough? Listen to me, Quinn, and listen good -  _you will do as I say, or that malformed creature you call a son will face the consequences._ Am I clear?"

Quinn glared at Isbeil, her voice tight as she spoke in the affirmative. "Clear."

"Good girl," Isbeil cooed, reaching out to stroke one hand over the other woman's hair. "I knew I liked you."

The cry of a child cut the air, giving Quinn the opportunity to slap the woman's hand away. " _Never_ touch me," she snarled, then whirled back through the open door, slamming it behind her. The child's noise was cut off as quickly as it had come, and Isbeil turned to head back the way she'd come. Hermione, realising she was on her route, scrambled for a hiding place, rushing back around the pub. The only place, however, was inside, and the memory of blazing fire was too strong for that at the moment. Instead, she gambled on brazening it out, leveling her stride and planting her feet in the centre of the street as if she'd just wandered up. It didn't take long for Isbeil to appear, and when she did she gave a double take upon seeing Hermione.

"Auror Granger," she purred, collecting herself. "I thought you were on bed rest."

"Is that your educated opinion?" Hermione asked sweetly, making a show of her reluctance to talk to the woman. It wasn't hard.

Isbeil grinned, fangs on show. "That's what they say on the telly, isn't it? Bed rest cures all ills." Something about this statement jibed wrong in Hermione's head, and she frowned in confusion, but Isbeil steam-rolled over any chance she had to think. "And how  _are_ you feeling this morning? I did mean to come up and visit but I had a few things to manage first. The life of an Alpha, hey?" She gave a delighted laugh.

Hermione remembered the woman down the hill's words and couldn't stop her lip from curling in derision. "I wouldn't know," she sniped, "and I doubt I would have been there to receive you, had you managed to visit. I have my own 'things' to manage - or did you suppose I was here for a social visit?"

Isbeil's eyes glittered maliciously. "Ah, yes, I forgot. One forgets that there are police in our midst when one doesn't see them work. What brings you here? Surely your business is in the castle?"

If Hermione wasn't mistaken, there was a hint of concern in the other woman's voice. Curious.

"I'm afraid I cannot divulge the details of my investigation until the perpetrator has been caught, Mrs. Allaidh. If you'll excuse me?" Brazening it out, Hermione strode past Isbeil and off down the hill, feeling those canine eyes on her as she went. Only when she passed the tree line did the sensation stop, but Hermione gave it another few minutes before retracing her steps, just to be sure the woman had gone.

Her knock at the cottage door was met by the traditional police welcome; a hearty "fuck off!" shouted from within. Hermione felt her eyebrow twitch upwards slightly, but forced it down. The words weren't for her, she knew.

"Mrs. Quinn?" she called, moving over to the window. "It's Auror Granger. I'd like to ask you a few questions about Abigail, if you have the time?"

There was a sense of vacancy behind the door, as if Quinn had moved to another room, but it only lasted a few seconds before a rustling around the back caught her attention. A voice floated towards her disparate words - she heard "-no -  _Isbeil…_ the Alpha… Conflict-" but they were whispered, and Hermione didn't have the famous enhanced hearing of a were. A crackling noise split the air, like an out of tune radio.

"Hello?" Hermione called again, frowning as she went to investigate. Turning the corner, she was once more faced by the almost-familiar woman who'd argued with Isbeil, holding a grey metal box to her face. Surprise brought Hermione forward. "Is that a walkie-talkie?"

The woman - Quinn, presumably - held up a finger for silence, and if Hermione had needed any more confirmation on this woman's identity then it had been given, for noone but a teacher could command her obedience so easily. And unlike Mary-Rose, who was the soft, sweet, baking-and-singing type of teacher, Hermione knew that this Mrs Quinn was more of the Minerva McGonagall school of pedagogy: strict, fair, and utterly ruthless.

It stunned Hermione to realise that if she'd stood any closer to Quinn, she would be staring at the top of her head. She wouldn't put the other woman any taller than four foot eleven, on a good day, yet her manner made her appear much taller. With the lithe limbs of the female were, she had the build of a ballet dancer, if one ignored the musculature peeking through her sleeves and shorts. Like many of the other pack members, her clothes were an eclectic mix of the old and the new: she wore leather trousers paired with a serviceable blouse, dotted with pale stains, and her dark red hair was pulled back by a blue-and-green scrunchie. She had the trademark worn towel of a new mother thrown over her shoulder.

"That Auror is here, I'll have to go, Kev. Do not do anything stupid." She dropped the device from her face, flipping the switch on its side without looking, her eyes busy assessing Hermione. "They're for the school," she said abruptly, and it took a moment for Hermione to understand what she meant. "We don't have a proper schoolhouse yet so we make do by shuttling the little ones between my place and Little Red's. We need to keep in touch as we do it, hence," she rattled the radio.

"Ingenious," Hermione said, meaning it. "I wish I'd thought of that back at Hogwarts."

"Bet you didn't think of using cups with string, either, and they'd work just as well." Quinn beckoned her to follow as she turned for the back of the house. Hermione noted a patch of grass that had been turned into a vegetable garden, little sticks poking out of the ground to hold up cards patterned with juvenile renditions of various vegetables, names scrawled messily above. Passing them, Hermione caught Abigail's, with a plump red tomato scowling up at her, and Molly's son Joe's, who had clearly misunderstood the assignment for his held an almost cave-drawing-esque vista of trees. His name was written in an adult script, and Hermione bent down to find that an asterisk on the back bore the word 'potato'.

"When did you plant these?" Hermione asked, a cold feeling spreading through her chest as she inspected the picture more closely. The trunks of the trees had been painted in red rather than brown, and the fat, fleshy splodges of green that served as leaves looked almost grotesque against that background.

She could feel Quinn's annoyance as the woman stopped to wait for her, but she must have seen something in Hermione's eyes when she turned back to look at her for she obliged, if unwillingly. "About a week ago. The kids were still working on their labels, then, so we marked them off with thread. The pins only went down a few days ago."

Hermione lifted a hand to trace the edges of Joe's picture. "Can I borrow this?" She wasn't sure why she wanted it, but her instincts were practically screaming, and she hadn't survived this long by ignoring them.

Quinn scowled, folding her arms. "Of course not! That's Joe's, and it will be staying right there. Now hurry up!" She spun on her heels and marched into the house through a door that blended into the plank wall.

Hermione didn't waste a second before pulling a sheet of paper from her bag. She wasn't strong enough at wandless casting to duplicate the whole thing, but if she thought hard… " _Geminio,"_ she whispered, focusing hard on the sketch. When ink began to skate across the paper she held, she folded it carelessly and shoved it back into the depths. She was inside the house before Quinn reached the door to check up on her, and the other woman gave her a suspicious look before pushing it closed.

She found herself in a kitchen, decorated in shades of yellow and white that complimented the unfinished wooden walls, slightly blurred by the aura of the structural wards the family had placed on them. Nails set high held up photographs of Quinn with another almost-familiar man, both of them waving cheerfully at the camera. The worktops, built low to accommodate Quinn's diminutive form, were highly polished wood, varnished dark, and the sink was a bright, clean white. The detritus of a morning bake was scattered about, as well as an empty jar of some sort of puree and, incongruously, a shiny white Muggle breast pump lay on the shelf of an open cupboard. There was no fridge or freezer, but Hermione was sure that one of the ill-crafted cupboards that lined the walls would be accompanied by a permanent cooling rune, just like Molly Weasley used. The window, small and facing the yard, was covered by a fluffy net curtain embroidered with Tudor roses. Looking around, Hermione tried to identify the feeling in her chest.

Envy. Somehow, Hermione was jealous of this woman with her normal job and her family and her easy mixture of the two conflicting worlds between which Hermione balanced uneasily in her home.

The child that had produced the stains on Quinn's shirt lay in a crib in the corner, one arm wrapped loosely around a raggedy Scottie toy. It's baby blue eyes peered curiously at Hermione before apparently discarding her as uninteresting, which she didn't take personally. She loved Teddy and James but strangers' children held no appeal to her.

"Make this quick, I have things to do," Quinn ordered, turning her frown on a bowl of something yellowish and sloppy on the counter. She began to whisk it, violently.

"I was hoping to ask you some questions?"

"Ask away." This, clipped, as she pummelled the mixture. This was by no means inviting, but Hermione flipped open her notebook all the same.

"Can I ask when you last saw Mr Turner?"

"I don't know,  _can_  you?"

Hermione blinked, not certain whether the woman was being deliberately obstructive or simply a teacher. "May I?"

Quinn sighed, turning to lean her hip against the counter. She gestured to the chair furthest from her child and Hermione took it, the pieces slotting together in her mind. What had Isbeil said?  _You will do as I say, or that malformed creature you call a son will face the consequences._ This woman was a werewolf; hot-tempered and extremely territorial. Her child had been threatened, then a stranger showed up at her door. Hermione thought that perhaps, in her position, she would have been far less welcoming.

"Look, I saw Matthew at the Market Sunday last and he was his usual creepy self. Tried to kiss me before Kev showed up." Quinn waved an airy hand. "He's lucky I was there to stop my husband from killing him, actually. Kev does  _not_ share." She shrugged. "He wandered off to harass Little Red after that, for all the good it did him. That girl doesn't bend that way."

 _Perhaps I should be talking to Kev, then,_  Hermione did not say. She didn't need to, she knew from statements that Kevan Quinn had spent the night Turner went missing, and those following, up in the Castle with Simidh and a few of the Beta's friends for a poker tournament, the length of which was caused by a cheating dispute it took days to investigate. Days and lots of beer, apparently. "You didn't see him after that?"

Quinn gave a bitter laugh. "Only later that day, when I spotted him down an alley with his hand up some poor woman's skirt. After that? Nothing, and good riddance to him."

Hermione tapped her pen on the rings of her pad, nibbling on the inside of her cheek in thought. "You didn't get a good look at whoever he was with?"

"Nope. That doesn't do it for me, I'm afraid." The child made a questioning noise, and Quinn dropped the bowl, now filled with a frothy white mixture, to cross the room. She hefted the kid into her arms and cooed at him.

"He's lovely," Hermione commented blandly. He  _was_ cute _,_ for a strange baby. "What's his name?"

"Faolán," Quinn told her, looking at the baby with such immense love. "We call him Fen for short. For the Alpha."

Everyone would be calling him Fen, then, Hermione thought uncharitably. She certainly wouldn't be trying to pronounce that word. Or maybe it was just the mention of Greyback that had made her grumpy; she certainly had no trouble with Simidh, and she could feel the way her entire body had tensed up at the very mention of the bloody Alpha. "Why for the Alpha?" Hermione asked, and she could hear the petulance in her voice but couldn't control it.

Quinn swapped little Fen to her other hip, ruffling his mop of ashy hair as she headed to a cupboard. The plain pots of yoghurt and berries and the milk inside told Hermione that her earlier assumption was correct. "Because Fen wouldn't be alive without him."

To Hermione's mounting astonishment, Quinn flicked a finger at a baby's bottle of milk and the sparks of a warming charm swaddled it. "He was born a wolf, see," Quinn continued, as if she hadn't just done an amazing feat of magic. "Some women have trouble with were pregnancies, but that had never been a problem for me - we think, now, that Fen's magic was protecting him even in the womb, even from my Change. The birth, however?"

Quinn sat at the tiny table in the centre of the room, propping Fen on her lap so that she could splash some of the milk on her wrist, then lapped it up with her tongue. She brought it to the baby's lips and carried on. "There were complications around the last moon. Fen was ready to be born, and he knew it, but my body was too preoccupied by the moon to labour successfully. He was going to eat his way out of me." This, all spoken in a cheerful voice, with the woman stroking her son's hair lovingly.

"Alpha was almost too late - but he made it. Fen would be born into the Pack, so he knew his Alpha, and accepted his magic, calmed down long enough for me to Change." Quinn grinned, pure happiness in her eyes. "I gave birth in wolf form, and our Fen was born wolf, too. Not only that, but at moonset, he Changed back, seamlessly, into a healthy baby boy. Strong, too; Alpha reckons my little boy will have a Pack of his own, one day."

Hermione opened her mouth, then slammed it closed in alarm, because Quinn had tapped Fen's cheeks and he'd turned his eyes to her.

His  _yellow_ eyes _._


End file.
